


Some Kind Of Monster

by rebekahdarian



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AKA Murphy, Accident Prone Jordan, Alive Hale Family, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Alternate Universe - No Hale Fire, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, And Then There's Peter Fuckin' Shit Up, Asthma Attacks, BAMF Boyd, BAMF Stiles, Hidden Magic, M/M, Magic, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Morally Ambiguous Peter, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Peter Brings All The Boys To The Yard, SUPER SLOW BUILD TO STEREK, Scott Gets Bitten, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, Sigils, Slow Build, Stiles-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-05
Updated: 2018-03-12
Packaged: 2019-01-09 06:40:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 93,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12270978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rebekahdarian/pseuds/rebekahdarian
Summary: “Still out of commission, Parrish?” Stiles asked, a sympathetic smile creasing his face.Jordan let his pen fall to the desk, where it rolled and settled by the keyboard. “Only for another two weeks,” he sighed. His gaze flicked over Stiles before sliding just past him to the door.Stiles turned to follow his gaze just as Scott entered the station. He looked back at Jordan. “Is it broken?”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Heeey, long time no see. The posting schedule for this will be every two weeks from today (Wednesday) until I finish the handwritten version, then it will be at least once a week.
> 
> Fun Fact: This was a dream I had in 2012 and it's still super clear in my head. It's now turned into a 32k+ word beast, not quite a monster but it's heading that direction. If anyone who likes dream meanings and such wants to take a crack at what it means, please feel free and let me know too in the comments. I still haven't quite figured it out myself. :D
> 
> [Gia279](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Gia279) Thank you for being my beta. :) 
> 
> Oh! I have a lot of foreshadowing in this so if something doesn't make sense right away, it will later.
> 
> Update Nov 14: for some reason the updated date isn't changing from oct 5th. (At least on my end.) If you have ideas on how to fix this please let me know :) thank you.

“Are you okay?” Scott asked. He tilted his head so he could see Stiles out of the corner of his eye.

He saw a red-clad shoulder jerk. “I’m fine.”

They walked down the sidewalk shoulder-to-shoulder. Upturned buckets in various sizes sat in a circle next to an empty bus stop, a few scattered sticks were the only evidence to show it had been a drum circle less than twelve hours before.

“It’s eerie how quiet it is after each festival.” Scott flapped his arms against his sides and puffed out a long, foggy breath. “I mean, hundreds of people were just out here, making all sorts of noise, and now it’s like a ghost town!”

“Scott,” Stiles breathed, “please stop talking.” His voice cracked from the cold air, making him clear his throat. He tucked his hands under his arms, suppressing a shiver.

Scott opened and closed his mouth a couple times before finally closing it completely. He nodded, running his thumb under the strap of the backpack on his shoulder. His fingers tapped an anxious rhythm against the fabric. “You didn’t have to come with me,” he said softly. “You could have come tomorrow.”

Stiles’s head snapped up, his face flushing. “If I want to see _my_ dad, I can see him any day I want.” He shoved his hands in his pockets, stomping ahead.

The sheriff’s department was nestled in the heart of Beacon Hills, or what was left of Beacon Hills. Crumbling buildings and cracked sidewalks did not tourist attractions make. The Argents had truly let the town go to shit, but then, what did they care about the town while they were sitting pretty?

Stiles pushed the station’s door open and stepped in. The familiar scent of Pine-Sol assaulted his senses, the brilliantly pink folding chair next to the receptionists drawing the eye like a particularly ugly piece of art.

Jordan looked up from behind the desk, his booted ankle propped up on a spare chair.

“Still out of commission, Parrish?” Stiles asked, a sympathetic smile creasing his face.

Jordan let his pen fall to the desk, where it rolled and settled by the keyboard. “Only for another two weeks,” he sighed. His gaze flicked over Stiles before sliding just past him to the door.

Stiles turned to follow his gaze just as Scott entered the station. He looked back at Jordan. “Is it broken?” he asked casually as he leaned over the counter to sign into the visitors’ log. It made things easier—though Stiles wasn’t above forgoing the signing in and the rules if it meant getting his way—and it made Jordan happy.

“Nah, just sprained.” Jordan flexed his injured foot and winced.

“You sprained it?” Scott asked as he caught the tail end of the conversation. He slid up beside Stiles, casting a quick glance at the visitors’ log. He lifted an eyebrow.

Stiles shrugged and pressed his lips together. Writing his name and the time on a piece of paper was worth avoiding Jordan’s tight, disappointed frown for the remainder of the visit. “He’s still new,” he said, setting the pen down beside the clipboard. He threw a quick grin at Jordan, who promptly scowled back at him; it was totally faked. Stiles knew Jordan really loved having him around. It spiced things up.

Scott smiled. “Once he learns all three hundred and some odd of us by name he won’t need the log.”

Jordan rolled his eyes and twitched the clipboard so it was straight again.

Stiles chuckled and stepped around the desk to the hall leading to his dad’s office.

“It’s Saturday,” Scott explained.

Jordan snorted. “I know. I figured the two of you out at least.”

The office was open, a fan set in the doorway to circulate the warm air from the hall into the room. John looked up at the approaching footsteps. A smile lit his face. “Hey boys.”

“Hey, Dad.” Stiles stepped over the fan and flopped into an old arm chair across from the desk. “We brought you lunch.”

Scott stepped over the fan next, one hand digging around in the backpack. He produced an Iron Man lunchbox, a sheepish grin creeping across his face. “We ran out of paper bags.”

John lifted a brow, head tilting forward seriously. “Did Murphy see this?”

“Murphy?” Stiles asked. He didn’t recognize the name.

Scott set the lunchbox on the corner of the desk, casting a quick questioning glance at Stiles.

“Jordan. He’s the embodiment of Murphy’s Law: if it can go wrong, it will go wrong. Plus, you should see the face he makes when I call him that.” John sighed, grabbing the lunch box and opening it. “He likes superheroes.”

“How’d he hurt his ankle?” Scott asked, taking the seat next to Stiles.

John paused with a bag of grapes in his hands. He set them on the desk and looked at Scott seriously. “He rolled it when he missed a step getting off the bus…on his first day here.”

“Did Dr. Deaton tend it?” Stiles asked, stretching in his seat. “He’s the only one there who seems to get patients better quickly.”

“Excuse me!” Scott gasped in mock horror.

“Melissa’s a nurse, not a doctor!” Stiles twisted, accidently smacking Scott on the shoulder with a rogue hand.

“Nurses do more than the doctors,” Scott scowled.

“I don’t know who booted him,” John interjected, biting into the sandwich that Melissa had _sworn_ was chicken. “But he’s gone from no movement to a small hobble, so he seems to be making progress.”

“That’s good.” Scott kicked his feet up on the corner of the desk.

John’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “You don’t have to watch me eat. In some places that’s considered rude.”

“If we don’t make sure you eat the food, we’ll find it stashed in the bottom drawer and moldy, covered in insects,” Stiles shot, only half playfully. The flies weren’t an experience he wanted to go through again. He shuddered at the memory.

John waved a hand at them, face creased in irritation. “If I promise I won’t run off to the burger joint will you leave so I can get some work done?”

“What work do you have to do?” Stiles inquired, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.

Scott chuckled next to him.

“Confidential work.” John glowered, face set in the ‘there’s no way you’ll win this time, don’t even try’ expression Stiles had come to recognize.

“Fi- _ine_ ,” Stiles whined, sitting up and bumping Scott with his shoulder. “Let’s go, we can bug him about it later.” He threw his dad a smirk as they stood.

John rolled his eyes, holding up the rest of the sandwich, making a show of taking another bite.

 

They went to the front together. Scott swept past the reception desk and toward the door, pausing to look over his shoulder only when he realized Stiles wasn’t with him.

Jordan looked up from his computer as Stiles leaned over the visitors’ log to sign out. His face was twisted in exasperation, shoulders tight. “The Wi-Fi here _sucks_ , it’s slower than dial-up,” he huffed, tapping his fingers impatiently along the edge of the keyboard.

“Magic makes electronics iffy,” Stiles replied, signing his time out with a flourish.

Scott shifted his weight, pulling his bag higher on his shoulder.

Jordan nodded, jiggling the mouse. “That’s what the party was for yesterday? Magic?” He glanced at Stiles, then back to the screen, an unreadable expression settling across his face. Nerves, maybe. The magic of Beacon Hills occasionally unsettled newcomers.

“Yeah.” Stiles set the pen down. “A new spark just came out. The Argents swooped in and scooped them up, and threw a party to celebrate.” _And threw a party to distract everyone, more like._ He didn’t add that part.

Jordan shook his head a little. “What do they do with them?” he asked, frowning distractedly at the computer as an error message appeared on the screen.

Stiles shrugged. “Use them against the Hales or something? We don’t get to know that kind of stuff.” His stomach twisted at the lie, but the rules were simple in Beacon Hills: Never question the Argents and if you did, don’t do it out loud.

“So, people randomly start spewing spells and then they realize they’re a spark?” Jordan jabbed at the enter button on the keyboard a couple times, leaning in and squinting at the screen in frustration.

“A mark shows up.”

Stiles flinched; Scott had come up behind him.

“They do a spell on accident first, and the sigil for it shows up on their body,” Scott explained. “The more spells someone learns, the more tattoos show up.”

Jordan hummed thoughtfully, clicking aggressively at something on the computer, probably the refresh button.

Scott tipped his head forward. “Don’t you have sparks where you come from?” he asked, dropping a hand on Stiles’s shoulder as if he could sense his tension.

“Nope,” Jordan said absently. “We don’t.”

“Huh.”

“So “spark” is just a fancy word for witch?” He glanced away from the computer screen for a moment, brows lifted.

“I suppose,” Scott said slowly, looking at Stiles.

“How do they learn the spells?”

Stiles’s shoulder bunched under Scott’s hand as tension coiled his muscles, but he kept himself quiet.

“Well,” Scott said thoughtfully, “we don’t really know. No one does. That’s kind of the big question, isn’t it? How does it happen?” He shrugged and flashed that quick, disarming grin of his. “We have to go! See you later, Jordan!”

“Bye,” Jordan replied, already turning back to smack at his computer.

 

The parking lot was bright with midday sun when they stepped outside. Stiles pulled his hoodie tighter around him. “Hospital next?” he asked, automatically angling his stride toward the hospital.

Scott nodded. “Yeah, shouldn’t take too long.” He took his inhaler out of his pocket and shook it near his ear. “Mom should have the refill ready when we get there.”

“No worries. It’s not like we have anything else to do.” The library they worked at would be closed tomorrow and the next day due to the festival; Stiles’s mouth twisted in irritation. It wasn’t _festive_ so much as disruptive, as far as he was concerned.

They turned left on the main street, arms brushing as they walked so they could both fit on the sidewalk. Stiles kicked at an empty fast food cup, sending it skittering down the street. It didn’t seem to matter how often the streets got cleaned up, there was always some trash everywhere.

The Beacon Hills pharmacy was on the first floor of the hospital. The hospital itself wasn’t as busy as a hospital in a bigger city, but for the dozen nurses, including Melissa McCall, and only a handful of doctors, it was always busy. The pharmacy had a scattered assortment of chairs making up the waiting area, nearly all full with people waiting for their prescriptions.

“Always after a festival,” Scott breathed, winding his way between the seats to get in line.

“Yeah, well, people need hangover cures after the party.” Stiles shrugged.

An alarm blared on the floor above them, followed by rapid footsteps. Scott looked around at Stiles with wide eyes, mouthing, “yikes!”. The line inched forward at a snail’s pace. The clock hanging slightly off-center on the far right wall showed that they’d waited half an hour before Lydia waved them forward. She sat up straight in the chair behind the counter, lips pursed slightly in what could be irritation at the onslaught of people.

“I’m here to pick up a refill.” Scott grinned. Lydia glanced to the shelf of white paper bags waiting to be picked up. She swiveled her chair around, eyeing the shelf and name cards. “We don’t have a prescription for that name,” she said at last, turning back to them. Scott frowned. “Nurse McCall should have sent one down-” 

“We don’t have one for you, Scott.” She looked apologetic for a second, then her gaze shifted to the growing line behind him. “Maybe she got busy and forgot. If I see her, I’ll ask her about it for you.” She tilted her head slightly, silently asking him to move away.

“Is it under Stilinski?” Stiles asked, blocking Scott’s path so he wouldn’t move.

Her eyes narrowed, but she swung her chair back around anyway, obviously deciding that checking would move them faster than arguing.

Scott furrowed his brows, so Stiles shrugged. “It happened when I needed my Adderall refill last month.”

“Nothing for Stilinski either.” She flapped her hand at them. “Now, please. I’ll send a memo upstairs if you _please_ let me get back to work!”

Scott bumped Stiles with his shoulder. “C’mon. Let’s go, I’ll try to call Mom and see what happened.”

Stiles pursed his lips, but allowed himself to be shuffled away from the counter.

“She probably just got distracted,” Scott continued. “We can go home and call her, so we’re out of everyone’s way. You said yourself, we don’t have anything else to do, right?” He grinned crookedly and bumped Stiles’s shoulder again.

Stiles sighed. “Right.” Once they were outside, though, he couldn’t help asking, “Will you be alright without it?”

Scott nodded. “Yeah, I’ll be fine. The old one isn’t completely empty yet, anyway.”

Stiles watched him, unimpressed. “Still sounds like a stupid risk. It’s time for the refill.”

Scott pulled his cell phone from the side pocket of his backpack. It was a flip phone, dated, to be sure, but that was the point: the older the technology, the better chance it had of working. Scott flipped it open and typed a quick message, then shoved it back in the pocket. He noticed Stiles staring at him. “If it doesn’t send by the time we get home, I’ll call Mom from the landline,” he promised.

“And if the landline doesn’t work?”

“Then I’ll kick you outside,” Scott joked, casting his gaze along the street to ensure their privacy. “Even if it’s cold.”

Stiles snorted and shoved him lightly. “Rude!” He’d drive to the border of the town if he had to so Scott could call Melissa and get the medicine he needed, because he knew Scott, and Scott wouldn’t actually tell him to wait outside, let alone leave the property.

They passed the high school together, turning their heads to look at it as they passed. The fence around the lacrosse field was tilted at such an odd angle that most of their senior class had bets on when it would finally collapse. Stiles’s gaze roved over the field and the distant school, which looked like every other building in town: grey, crumbling, sad. The trees surrounding the school grounds cast long shadows around them, making the air feel much colder.

The backpack vibrated and Scott fumbled with the zipper, nearly dropping the phone through his numb fingers. “Message failed,” he sighed. He pushed a button before flipping the phone shut and putting it away. “Trying to resend.”

Stiles groaned in the back of his throat. “You should probably just wait until we’re home. We aren’t that far away.”

“Is it possible to be far away from anything _and_ still be in Beacon Hills?” Scott asked, snickering.

A shadow by the fence shifted, drawing their attention. “How interesting,” a voice purred. A man leaned against the fence, daring fate. He looked up and Scott’s steps faltered.

Stiles pressed on. He wasn’t interested in conversation with the riffraff.

“Most electronics are supposed to go back to normal after a spark is…claimed. Or,” he chuckled, “Beacon Hills-normal, anyway.”

“We didn’t do anything, Peter,” Stiles snapped. “Leave us alone.” He grabbed Scott’s shoulder with the intention of directing Scott forward forcefully if he had to.

Peter hummed thoughtfully and straightened up from the fence; it was barely a movement, but he was in front of them as if he’d teleported, blocking their path.

Stiles’s hand twisted in Scott’s hoodie as he pulled him off the curb and into the street, fully prepared to go around the Argents’ newest pet.

Peter didn’t try to block them again; instead he turned, keeping pace with them as if he was just joining them for a stroll.

“What do you want?” Stiles demanded, refusing to turn his head and look at him.

“I want many things,” Peter said, tilting his head back so he could scent the air. “But I’ll settle for what I have.” He paused just long enough for Stiles to wonder just what it was that he had. “What’s more interesting,” Peter continued, “is the smell that magic gives off.”

“Magic only has a smell when it’s being used,” Scott interjected. “Everyone knows that, that’s why sparks are claimed when they first find out what they can do. The unintentional spell is tracked, and they’re turned in.” Scott shoved his hands in his pockets, completely unbothered by Stiles hauling him along like a kid. It was a fact of his life that his surrogate brother was at best protective, at worst overbearing. “That’s why the Argents need you and Deucalion. To track the scent.”

“You would do well to let me know if you witness another spark showing up,” Peter said, turning to look seriously at Scott. “That is the law, after all.”

“Oh, yeah,” Stiles muttered, the words escaping before he could bite them back. “We’ll go seek out the werewolf that turned on his pack mid-war. That sounds like a good plan.”

Peter snarled, his lip curling up over deadly-sharp fangs, eyes flashing a golden yellow.

Stiles tensed but didn’t back down; he refused to be cowed by one of the Argents’ _dogs._

“Well,” Peter said, abruptly composing himself. “Good luck with your electronic problem.” He turned and loped away toward the trees and the general direction of the Argents’ mansion.

“I like Deucalion better,” Scott said, turning onto the street they lived on. “Deucalion is angry all the time, so you know what to expect. Peter just…” He shook his head. “I can’t read him.”

“Think they’re trying a good cop-bad cop act?” Stiles asked, stepping onto their driveway. He dropped the shoulder of Scott’s hoodie, mumbling an apology.

Scott shrugged it off as he did so many things. “I don’t know, man.” He pulled the house keys from his pocket and glanced over his shoulders, then at Stiles. His brows furrowed and his mouth tensed.

“I don’t think so,” Stiles mumbled. “There’s no way he could.”

Scott relaxed and pushed the door open, flicking the light on as he stepped in and kicked his shoes off by the wall.

The house was set up fairly simply, seeing as Beacon Hills didn’t have many furniture stores. Stores plural was pushing it, actually. The couch Claudia and John bought before Stiles was born sat in the living room flanked by two arm chairs that Melissa had received as a wedding gift from her parents. No one could remember where the coffee table had come from but it certainly looked careworn and part of the room, like it’d simply sprung into existence there, scuffed from countless falls, spills, and kicked-up legs, half-buried under junk mail.

“Hamburgers sound good for dinner?” Scott called, stepping around the corner into the kitchen.

“Sure.” Stiles flopped on the couch, rifling through the newspapers that had accumulated on the table. “Are you going to call your mom?” he prompted when he didn’t hear the sound of the phone dialing.

The movement in the kitchen stopped, followed by the unzipping of the backpack and a muttered curse. “Yeah, the text still hasn’t gone through.” Scott snatched the phone off the wall.

Stiles listened to him punch in the number, heard it ring once and then slowly fade out, dying with a beep and into a dial tone, like it was confused. Stiles sighed as Scott hung it up. He stood up. “I’m going out back,” he announced, crossing the house to the back door.

“Thanks,” Scott said weakly, looking guilty as he dialed the number again.

Stiles pushed the door open and stepped onto the deck. The cold air stabbed at him, making him pull his hoodie sleeves down over his fingers. He crossed the deck in two steps and plopped down on the steps. Part of him wished he could hear if the call went through. Ideally, Scott would come out to tell him if he needed to be far away, but the guy never wanted to make Stiles feel like a burden and ended up making him drown in guilt. He scanned the tree line that began at the end of the yard, lost in thought.

He’d seen Peter around several times before, mostly at a distance. He’d only been with the Argents a few months, but he’d come bearing secrets of the Hale pack, which was as good as a key to the kingdom and had gotten him in good terms with Gerard and Kate, the two main brains of the household. Deucalion had taken Peter around town, showing him the boundaries and the places to keep an eye on, pointing out families of the previous sparks as a suggestion of who might be next. Peter had been the one to catch the newest spark the previous week.

Liam Dunbar had been at a party when the gas stove had exploded, blowing the house to pieces, but leaving the party goers completely unharmed. A spell had shielded everyone from the blast, leaving them unharmed in the middle of the wreckage. Liam had stood in the center of it all, arms outstretched and a thick black sigil trailing across his left hand and wrist, eyes and mouth wide with terror.

Peter had been first on the scene, followed by John, who’d been on duty that night. Peter escorted Liam to the Argents, filling his ears with sugarcoated lies and empty promises. The festival followed two days after that, though, as usual, there was no sign of the spark they were celebrating.

Stiles dug the toe of his shoe into the hard-packed dirt of the yard. It hadn’t rained in days, and it was showing.

The back door opened. “Mom said she’d bring it home when she gets off work tomorrow morning.”

Stiles made an agreeable noise, stretching his legs out.

“I, uh, started the hamburgers if you want to come back inside.” Scott didn’t wait for an answer before he ducked back into the house.

Stiles waited an extra minute, then stood, stretching his arms above his head. He made his way into the kitchen.

Scott had his back to him, singing under his breath and flipping a burger.

“I’ll get the lettuce and stuff,” Stiles said, pulling a large plate from the cabinet and reaching for a knife.

Ten minutes, one head of romaine, two small tomatoes, and an onion later he set the table. Headlights flashed through the window above the sink, illuminating the wall across from him.

“Dad’s home,” Stiles called, unlocking the front door. He was setting a jug of juice and some cups on the table when John came inside.

“Murphy requires an Iron Man lunchbox,” John announced before he even took off his coat.

Stiles heard the sound of his shoes getting kicked off right next to Scott’s and shook his head. Somehow, Scott had picked up John’s bad habits and he and Melissa were left alone despairing of the shoe rack literally two feet from where they kicked their shoes off.

“I don’t remember where we found that one,” he replied, searching the drawers for napkins.

“Mom found it in the attic,” Scott said, moving the burgers to the plate of buns.

“So the chances of finding another are slim to none,” John deduced, hanging his utility belt on the coat rack. He smiled at the set table. “Thanks for cooking, boys.” He sat down in his seat, rubbing a hand over his head.

“You’re welcome,” Scott chirped, sliding sideways into his own seat.

John cleaned up after dinner, since the law of food in the Stilinski | McCall household was they who cooked shall not clean.

Stiles changed into pajamas and bade everyone goodnight. It wasn’t unusual for him to go to bed early and wake up late around a festival, not that he slept that long, so they didn’t question him. He laid on his bed, gazing listlessly at the ceiling, urging his brain to quiet down.

 

It was around midnight that Scott came in and climbed into his own bed across the room; it wasn’t long after that that he slipped into sleep, his breathing going deep and even.

Sleep danced tantalizingly out of reach for Stiles, so he kept staring into the dark, silently counting in the hopes that it would entice his brain to sleep. He got to fifty before he got distracted by Peter’s veiled accusations, to thinking about where Liam Dunbar was now, about something he said to someone in school nearly a decade ago…

Scott’s breathing changed subtly after a while. His breath caught slightly at first, making Stiles’s body tense under his blanket, ears straining. When his breath hitched again, he sat up, peering over at Scott’s bed in the dark. A low rattling breath dragged its way into Scott’s lungs, then another, the rasp worsening with each breath.

Stiles rolled to his feet, bracing himself against the wall to try to make as little noise as possible. He crossed the room to the window and put his hands on it, giving it a hard tug to make sure it was closed. He moved on to Scott’s bed, bending over him and placing a hand on the center of his back, light enough that he wouldn’t wake. Stiles breathed in through his nose, the air rushing through his lungs, his blood vessels expanding, welcoming the oxygen that came so readily to him. He felt it right then, the tingling in the center of his left butt cheek, a swirl of energy that pushed through his body, rapidly making its way up his torso and into his hand. He exhaled, shoving the energy and air into Scott’s body, expanding and relaxing his lungs, opening his airway, stopping the possibility of an asthma attack.

Stiles pulled his hand away. The magic drained from the sigil immediately, leaving him groggy and hungry. He looked at the window, double checking that it was shut before stumbling to his bed and passing out.


	2. Chapter 2

The window was still closed at noon. It was an unspoken rule in the house to close doors quickly when they used them and to keep the windows shut unless they knew it was safe first.

Stiles shoved his head under the pillows, blinking rapidly to clear the spots in his eyes from the sunlight. When sleep turned its back on him once again, he dragged himself up, his head pulsing from his mostly-sleepless night. He yawned fiercely and rubbed his gritty eyes, glancing habitually at Scott’s bed, even though he had heard him leave the room hours ago.

He shed his pajamas and left them folded over the foot of his bed, pulling clean clothes on mostly blind. He stumbled down the hall and stairs, one hand pressed to the wall to find his way with his eyes half-mast.

Scott was curled in an armchair with a book resting in his lap. “Good morning, Sleeping No-Beauty,” he said, clearly pleased with his own wit. “What’s left of breakfast is on the stove. Mom’s asleep.” He tucked a bookmark in the book and flipped it shut.

“Dad here?” Stiles grunted, tripping into the kitchen toward the scent of eggs.

“No, Jordan called him in early. Something about Argent protestors.” Scott waved his hand dismissively. “ _That’s_ not going to last long.”

Stiles hummed and scooped the last of the eggs onto a plate and scoured the kitchen for the Lucky Charms he knew Scott had hidden somewhere. His stomach felt hollow, and his hands were starting to jerk and shake the longer it took for him to find food.

By the time he’d made it to the living room with his breakfast, which was in fact damningly large, Scott was staring at him suspiciously. Stiles chose to pretend he had no idea what he was looking at and went back to the kitchen for a large cup of coffee.

“Dude,” he breathed, casting a suddenly understanding glance at the sheer amount of food he’d grabbed, along with the pallor of his face and shadows underscoring his eyes. “You _didn’t._.”

“You needed it,” Stiles countered, dropping onto the couch. He didn’t spare Scott another glance, giving his undivided attention to the herculean task of filling his stomach.

“There’s two ’wolves in town now, what if they smell you?” Scott kept his voice low, head ducked slightly as if he expected Deucalion or Peter to jump out from behind the curtains shouting, “GOTCHA!”

Stiles swallowed a mouthful of marshmallow and egg, irritated that he had to waste time to answer. “I made sure the window was closed.”

Scott froze with a look of abject horror stamped across his face.

“If you don’t stop, your face is going to get stuck like that,” Stiles grumbled, chomping at his toast.

“Dude,” Scott repeated, shaking his head.

They lapsed into silence then, mostly out of necessity, until Scott broke out of his horrified trance. “I’m heading back to the pharmacy in an hour or so.” He leaned back in the chair, book forgotten on the floor. “Mom dropped off the prescription, but in the chaos from the festival, Deaton got swamped with other things.”

Stiles nodded around his last bite of eggs, using the moment when his mouth was full to stamp down on the anger that rose up at the idea of Scott’s prescription being pushed to the back burner. It wasn’t as if it’d been done on purpose, which he knew, logically. Illogically, he felt like Scott’s health should be everyone’s priority, and he didn’t see why that was so hard for the hospital staff to understand.

“Hey.” Scott nudged his leg. “It’s all good now. I’ll pick it up today and,” he lowered his voice, “with your help last night, I should be good for a while.” He flashed Stiles a bright smile. “Thank you, by the way.”

“Welcome.” He shoved the toast crusts in his mouth, deciding he was too hungry to be picky.

“Your dad’s lunch is in the fridge,” Scott offered, “if you want to take it to him while I run to the pharmacy. We can meet back here and try to get the Xbox to work.” An engaging grin lit up his face, which Stiles couldn’t refuse.

He bit into his apple, chewing thoughtfully anyway and pretending to think about it. There was only a 50% chance of the console working, anyway, their other option being the loading screen of doom, so it wasn’t any skin off his back if they tried. “Halo?” he asked finally, lifting his head.

“Yeah! I should be back before you, I can start working on it. Once it gets working, it should be fine. Like the jeep,” Scott chattered, glancing out the window to the jeep in the driveway.

“I think I’ll take it out tomorrow so the battery doesn’t die again.” Stiles tossed the apple core onto his empty plate.

“Road trip!” Scott beamed, even when Stiles snorted. “A small one,” he allowed. “A see-Beacon-Hills-road-trip.”

Stiles chuckled and snapped up the last of his food, which was a quartered banana. “Yeah, like there’s that much of Beacon Hills to see.”

Scott stood and snagged his house keys off the hook by the door. “I’ll be back later!” he called, lifting a hand to wave over his shoulder.

Stiles waved back, even though he couldn’t see it. He got up after he slammed the door behind him, gathering his dishes. After he put them away, he grabbed the Iron Man lunchbox from the fridge.

He went to the closet by the front door and pulled out an aerosol can of air freshener. He’d long since perfected the art of making even someone with a slightly sensitive _human_ nose cringe away from him, let alone a werewolf. He sprayed from the top of his shoes and up his jeans to the edge of his shirts. After that, he tugged on an actual jacket rather than his usual hoodie and snagged his keys before heading out.

The walk to the station didn’t take long. The streets were still mostly empty, but he saw at least three people, and heard a few indistinguishable voices. It was refreshing to see life returning to the town, little though it was.

Something darted between buildings, the movement catching his attention from the corner of his eye. He tilted his head, but the blur, whatever it was, was gone. He guessed it was either Deucalion or Peter on patrol. He turned back to the road after a second. “Dicks,” he muttered, not bothering to lower his voice.

When the sheriff’s station came into view, it became immediately clear that the cruisers were nowhere on the lot. Stiles swung the lunchbox around his finger by the handle, pressing his lips together as anxiety made his stomach knot up.

He entered the building carefully, his heart skipping when he realized the lobby was empty. “Hello?” he called, stepping in fully and letting the door close behind him.

Footsteps shuffled down the hall, and Jordan peered curiously around the corner. “Stiles,” he greeted cheerfully, gripping the wall to keep himself upright.

Stiles frowned. He could still hear footsteps, getting fainter the longer he listened. The squeak of the side exit opening and closing made him frown. “Who was that?” he asked, stepping forward to peer down the hall, which was empty, of course.

“An old friend, come to say hi,” Jordan said dismissively. He hobbled over to his desk.

Stiles’s frown deepened. “From here or Willow Creek?” he asked, surprising himself when he remembered Jordan’s hometown so readily.

“Here.” Jordan pulled out the visitor’s log, tapping it expectantly with his pen. “He’s the reason I came here, actually.”

Stiles scrawled his name and the time on the paper. “I was wondering why anyone would want to come here,” he admitted, snorting. “Most people are trying to leave.” The words slipped out before he could stop them.

Jordan looked up at him keenly, his eyes narrowed just slightly.

Stiles swallowed; well, Jordan would figure it out eventually, especially if he had a friend here. “The Argents…” He jerked his shoulders and tapped the pen across the edge of the desk. “If anyone tries to leave, the Argents send their dogs after you.” He put the pen in a cup with its brethren.

“Dogs?” Jordan repeated tersely.

“Deucalion and, now, Peter,” Stiles said. “No one leaves, not without the Argents’ permission.” He took a quiet, bracing breath. “Deucalion doesn’t bother to bring people back alive. I don’t know Peter well enough yet to tell how he’d deal with that.”

“He wouldn’t-” Jordan snapped, then shut his mouth. He said, after a moment, “Werewolves are pack oriented. They’re supposed to protect people on their land, it’s instinct.”

Stiles snorted. “Explain that to Peter. Did you know he’s a _Hale_? And he’s working for the Argents.” He shook his head and tapped a finger on the desk. “Do you know when Dad’s going to be back?”

Jordan stared at the computer, which was off, Stiles noticed. “Not sure,” he said, strained.

Stiles couldn’t blame him; he dropped what he thought was a pretty big bombshell on him about the place he’d just moved to. “If, uh, you ever need to talk we can get coffee or something, your friend could come, too,” Stiles offered awkwardly. “If they’re new here, too, it might be nice to have someone for you to vent to.” 

Jordan’s fingers flexed on the keyboard and his chest heaved, nostrils flaring. He didn’t respond, but Stiles didn’t take it personally.

He set the lunchbox on the counter. “Please give that to my dad when he gets back,” he said, clearing his throat. He picked up the pen and signed out on the visitors’ log, despite there being maybe a three-minute difference between the out and in times. He tapped his knuckles against the desk. “Bye.” He waved and left, putting his hands in his pockets as he left.

The hair on the back of his neck stood on end when he got to the parking lot. His skin crawled, a chill sliding down his back like an icy finger. He looked around, but the lot was empty.

 

“Oh my gods!” Scott slammed the front door. “I don’t care how desperate I am, I am _never_ going to the pharmacy near the festival again!”

“Did you get your inhaler?” Stiles asked, jiggling the wires connecting the Xbox to the TV.

“Yes, but _at what cost_?” Scott demanded shrilly, tossing his keys on the table and flying around the corner to investigate Stiles’s progress with the game system. “My sanity, Stiles. My sanity was the cost!”

“To be perfectly honest, I’d trade your sanity for your life,” Stiles sighed. He blinked up at the TV as the screen loaded, displaying the Xbox logo. “Got it!” He beamed triumphantly.

Scott slapped him on the back and scooped up a controller from the floor.

 

Melissa emerged from her bedroom at some point after Scott annihilated Stiles’s player but before he regenerated. The screen flickered threateningly when she turned on the kitchen light.

“No, no, no, no,” Stiles chanted, jerking the controller and leaning to the right like that would actually help his player avoid Scott’s shot.

The Xbox gave a high pitched whine, the fans whirring loudly. It rallied for a second, the fans slowing down, but it was a façade. The fans kept slowing, the picture pixilating.

“It was good while it lasted,” Scott said, winding the wire around his controller.

Stiles glowered at the TV until it clicked off, giving up the fight. “Yeah.” He stretched his legs, not realizing how tense he’d gotten. “You going to work?” He twisted so he could see Melissa in the kitchen; she was wearing her scrubs, hair pulled back neatly.

“Ten to six, five days a week,” she said absently. She turned her back to rummage through the fridge.

“It’s not ten yet,” Stiles said, brows furrowing.

She crossed the room and poked the side of Stiles’s head. “That thing between your ears? Try to use it. Of course it’s not ten yet. I’d have to be clocking in right now if it was.” She double-checked her watch. “It’s nine-fifteen.”

“PM?” Stiles jumped, turning to stare at Scott with wide eyes.

Scott stared back, just as shocked. “We managed to play that for a long time,” he said, grabbing Stiles’s controller to put away for him.

“Dad’s not home yet,” Stiles observed, jiggling his foot. He turned toward the window, expecting to see John pulling up in the cruiser any second.

“I think he’ll be home soon,” Melissa said, squeezing his shoulder.

“You want to try calling his cell?” Scott asked, half-rising to grab the landline.

Stiles kept jiggling his foot. “I’ll wait a little bit. I’m sure he’s just running behind.” He picked at his pinky nail. “I’m sure he’s fine.”

Scott slowly sat back down on the couch, though he perched on the edge in case Stiles changed his mind.

“Be good, boys.” Melissa kissed the top of Stiles’s head, then turned to give Scott a squeeze. “Call me if you need anything, or stop by, that might be faster,” she teased. She slung her purse over her shoulder. “Have a good night.”

As the door closed at her back, the cruiser pulled up the driveway.

Stiles’s chest loosened. He heard the familiar squeak of the second porch step as John walked up them, opening the door. “Hey, Dad,” Stiles called, jumping up. “How was work?”

He lifted his brows. “Fine,” he replied slowly, stepping around him to get to the kitchen. He started taking care of the Tupperware that once held his lunch.

“What’re the protests about?” Stiles asked, twisting the hem of his shirt around his fingers.

John snorted. “Nothing that concerns you.” He sat on the couch beside Scott, sighing heavily, and propped his feet on the coffee table.

“Then you shouldn’t have any problem telling me what it was,” Stiles tried.

Scott rolled his eyes and patted John’s leg consolingly at Stiles’s obvious and weak attempt to pry information out of him.

“Were you trying to scare Jordan?” John demanded, sitting up and pinning Stiles with that patented ‘you know better’ look only a parent could manage.

Stiles threw his arms out, lifting one hand to better demonstrate how unfair he found that. “No,” he managed, glancing at Scott for help. The traitor stared blankly back at him. “What did Jordan say I told him?” he asked, dropping his hand.

John’s brows pulled down. “That you said no one could leave Beacon Hills once they came here.”

“Oh, that.” He stopped shifting around and said, flatly, “They can’t. We can’t, not without Argent permission and since they’re low on magic, they aren’t going to risk letting a potential spark out of their dogs’ reach.”

A flush crept across John’s face. “He’s been here a couple weeks-”

“Well, he shouldn’t have come here at all!” Stiles exploded. “No one should ever come here!”

John let out a slow, controlled breath. “You can’t walk around talking like that, you _know_ you can’t go around talking like that.” His voice was low and furtive, so unlike himself that Stiles hesitated, tried to rein it in.

“I wasn’t _walking_ around anywhere. I was at the station, and now I’m at home.”

“Peter or Deucalion could still hear you,” John said sternly.

“The Argents are losing ground against the Hales, right?” Stiles asked, his voice rising again. “That’s why they accepted Peter to their side?”

John pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut.

“He gave over information about the Hales to Gerard,” Scott said, drawing their attention to him. He fidgeted with the corner of his book. “I heard Lydia at the pharmacy talking about it.”

“He handed over his _pack?_ ” Stiles sputtered. “His _family?_ ” He dropped his hands on his head, gripping at his hair.

“Maybe? I dunno, you know how things get warped in the rumor mill,” Scott backtracked, watching as Stiles got more worked up.

“He’s worse than the Argents,” he spat, pacing the length of the living room. “At least they would die before turning on their family.” He folded his arms across his chest, snorting a harsh breath out through his nose.

“Stop that, you sound like an angry cow,” John said. “We’re done talking about this.” His voice was so grave that Stiles felt it was best to stop pushing.

Unfortunately, his self-control was still lacking. “Is that what those protests have been about? People realizing the Argents aren’t killing enough people for their magic and are weaker because of it? Why do they think they have Deucalion and Peter? Certainly not for eye candy. They don’t need to syphon magic for strength,” Stiles huffed, glaring at his father with misplaced anger.

“I said,” he said, enunciating carefully, “enough.” He glared back.

Stiles flopped back against the couch, staring at their only family picture, hanging on the wall beside the window. His mother’s face smiled back at him, her arms wrapped around a younger Stiles while John stood beaming behind them.

John sighed and closed his eyes, leaning back so his arm was pressed up against Stiles’s; Stiles tilted his head and let it rest against John’s shoulder. On John’s other side, Scott wiggled down so he was leaning on him, too, humming contentedly.

 

Stiles woke ridiculously early the next morning. The sky hadn’t even started changing colors when his brain snapped awake, eyes popping open. He mouthed curses at the dark ceiling, frustration welling up like tears behind his eyes. He didn’t even _have_ to be up early today, as the library was still closed and that, he decided, was just adding insult to injury.

He tossed and turned for what felt like hours before the squeaking of the bedsprings made Scott sigh loudly and roll over, facing the opposite wall. Stiles fidgeted with a loose thread on his blanket for a few more minutes, then dragged himself out of bed and to the bathroom.

Scott was propped up on his elbows, peering around blearily, when Stiles ducked back into the room to grab some clothes.

“You up for that road trip?” Stiles whispered. Now that he was awake and moving, he started to recognize the tense, jittery feeling sparking through his veins. Helping Scott the other night hadn’t been enough to expel it.

Scott blinked owlishly at him, slow understanding creeping across his face the longer he stared. “Yeah, I’m going with you.” He swung his legs down, wincing when his feet hit the cold floor.

Stiles left the room, smiling a little when Scott hissed, “Wait for me!” behind him. Downstairs, he scrawled a note for John in case he woke up before they returned, and went to the coat closet to bundle up. He pulled a jacket on over a hoodie and grabbed the keys, jiggling them between his fingers and bouncing his leg as he waited by the door.

Scott stumbled down the stairs, smacking his knee on the bannister. He muttered angrily, limping toward Stiles. He snatched the house keys from Stiles’s open palm.

Stiles thumbed the key to the jeep, running the pad of his finger over the ridges. It’d been a while since he’d driven his baby, even just for a little while. He went out first, leaving Scott to lock the door behind them, and jerked the driver’s door of the jeep open. He inhaled deeply, that wintery scent of stale car air greeting him like an old friend. He climbed in, running his hand reverently over the steering wheel. “Missed you,” he said, starting to grin. He put the key in the ignition, twisting it and punching the clutch at the same time.

The engine didn’t even sputter.

Scott climbed into the passenger seat looking like a bad-tempered human popsicle. He yawned and rubbed his cheek, staring over at Stiles with half-lidded eyes.

Stiles released the clutch and tried again. The jeep coughed twice and finally roared to life. “There we go!” He slapped the steering wheel, immensely cheered. He cranked the heat and drummed his palms across the steering wheel. “Ready, Scotty?”

Scott grumbled unintelligibly and burrowed deeper into his jacket, until only his eyes and the top of his head were visible.

Stiles figured that was ready enough and backed out of the driveway, wincing when the brakes screeched. “Shhh,” he whispered, patting the dash lovingly. He kept the jeep in first gear until he turned off the residential street. It shuddered when he switched to second, but quickly recovered and effortlessly changed to third. Stiles swayed in his seat, one hand fumbling with the radio dials until the one clear station crooned through the speakers.

Scott shifted in his seat and rested his head against the window, staring through the fog in front of them, lit by the jeep's headlights.

Stiles turned onto a bumpy service road. Trees speared up on either side of them, blocking out whatever light had started gathering in the sky. The road twisted and turned treacherously, potholes rapidly becoming ditches large enough to swallow the jeep. Stiles leaned forward in his seat, both anxious and challenged by the obvious danger.

An abandoned house tucked between the trees was their mile marker; Stiles turned off the dirt road, slowing down as he cruised over underbrush. Most cars would have already given up, he was sure, but the jeep simply laughed in the face of most obstacles. It was a trooper. He patted the dash again, pleased.

The nemeton was old, which was the extent of Stiles’s knowledge of its history. When he and Scott were little, Claudia would take them to picnics at the base of it. They would play on the roots or low branches, laughing and chasing each other, enjoying the clear, charged air, the company, the absence of low-level tension Claudia had seemed to carry with her any time they were out of the house.

Stiles stopped the jeep as close to the tree as he could, the wide trunk nearly as large as the jeep itself. He smacked Scott’s arm with the back of his hand, just hard enough to wake him. Stiles wasn’t sure how he’d managed to sleep during the drive anyway, the road wasn’t exactly smooth.

Scott followed him out, clambering over the large roots, gripping Stiles’s hand to help each other keep their balance.

Under one of them was an opening. They had stumbled—or fallen, depending on who you asked—into it on one of their picnics. The wide tunnel was small enough in height that they needed to crawl, now, but only several feet in, it opened up into a space the size of a room.

They'd clambered to their feet and found themselves in a large, dirt room with a large, main root from the tree spearing straight down through the ceiling. It cut through the empty space like a pillar and plunged into the ground. Before they'd even begun to explore, Claudia's panicked voice had echoed down to them, impossibly clear, before she'd found them a moment later, surprisingly easily. She'd scrambled in behind them, the whites of her eyes showing in the darkness.

Stiles had thought she was afraid of the darkness at first, and then maybe that it was just fear of the room itself, but she'd just run to the boys and checked that neither of them were hurt. Once she was sure they were unharmed, she'd turned to the root pillar, her face set in an unfamiliar expression as she ran reverent fingers over it, a shudder moving over her as she made contact.

"You forgot the flashlight," Scott hissed, jarring Stiles out of the memory. He bumped his head as he straightened out of the tunnel too soon, grumbling and rubbing the sore spot. “You _always_ forget the flashlight.” He cursed, fumbling with something until there was a click and a sudden beam of light. He flicked it around, illuminating the sigil stained root.

Thousands of sigils smaller than a fingernail covered nearly every inch of it. It had taken Stiles weeks of midnight visits and AA batteries to finally find his own in the mess of unknown spells.

Scott set the flashlight on the ground, pointed upward and casting a soft glow throughout the room.

The magic under Stiles’s skin buzzed. It was always more active here, like it was reacting to the magic in the nemeton. He placed a hand on the root, his palm tingling with the root’s own energy, warmth unfurling in his stomach.

“Hello,” Stiles said softly. The magic inside him pushed against the tree’s magic; he smiled when he felt the tree push back. The playful push-shove of energy made the restless part of him start to relax. Leaving one hand on the root, he gently began tracing the sigils with his index finger. The tree quivered.

“What are you doing?” Scott asked, squinting.

“Sharing magic, I guess,” Stiles muttered. “Playing tug-of-war.”

Scott wandered away, sitting down and leaning his back against the packed dirt wall. “If you’re going to learn a new spell, it’s safer to do it here.”

Stiles laughed. “Like I haven’t tried. Seeing a sigil doesn’t mean I learned it.” He ran his fingers down the side of the root. “I have to learn the flow of the spell first. Then the sigil appears.” He pulled his hand away. “Seeing the sigils is nice, but not educational.”

The tree’s magic jerked back from him, sulking away like a scolded child.

“What _would_ be helpful,” Scott said, “is knowing which sigil is the scent blocker. And then you could learn _that_ one.”

“Yeah.” Stiles closed his eyes, focusing his attention on the sizzle of magic running through his body, just under his skin like a wire had come loose during the construction of Stiles and had never been fixed. He breathed in, a deep, solid breath like he would take to help Scott breathe. Instead of forcing the air through his hands and into another person, he lifted his palms and pushed it out into the room. The gentle breeze ruffled Scott’s hair, loose dirt kicking up little clouds of dust low to the ground.

“Now do that on a bigger scale,” Scott instructed. “Knock me down.

“You’re sitting against a wall,” Stiles chuckled. “How am I supposed to knock you down?”

“C’mon.” Scott laughed, standing up. He flexed his arms and shoulders, widening his stance. “Do something _big_ ,” he challenged. He held his arms out at his sides, making a bigger target.

Stiles took another deep breath, calling on his unpracticed magic, which was already weakened from the one use. He looked behind himself, backing up so he could be sure that if he _did_ manage something bigger than a breeze, he wouldn’t actually hurt Scott. He pushed the air through his palms, feeling his magic flicker, tauntingly out of reach, making him breathless with panic.

Scott smiled. “Still standing.”

Stiles bore down, gritting his teeth; he knew this wasn’t what the spell had originally developed for, but at the core of it, the spell was _air_. He reached down deep for the magic and tugged as hard as he could, filling every cell in his body with as much as it could hold. Then he shoved, both with his hands and his mind, until the air yanked out of him, leaving him winded and doubled over.

“Still standing,” Scott repeated. “But I felt that one!”

The roots above them creaked.

Stiles straightened, holding his chest.

“Was that you?” Scott asked, hushed.

A muffled growl answered him.

The magic in the tree withdrew at the sound.

Stiles dove for the flashlight, plunging them into darkness. He fumbled for Scott’s hand in the dark, pulling him down beside him. “Deucalion,” he breathed.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta to the rescue!!! Sorry this is a little late! This is Gia posting for Rbek ;) I'm sure she'll delete this note once she has time to glance at what I've done!

They stayed frozen, hearts beating wildly as footsteps and the sharp breaths of Deucalion scenting the air grew closer.

The nemeton’s energy didn’t shift; it wasn’t scared of anyone. 

“You find anything?” Peter’s voice purred, slightly muffled. 

Scott’s head jerked around to look at Stiles, but of course all Stiles could see was a dark blob. He knew what he was trying to say anyway; _both_ wolves were here. 

“This place smells like magic,” Peter sneered. “ _Sick_ magic.” There was a rapid crunching as he approached the tree. 

“It’s the tree,” Deucalion grunted. 

Stiles breathed through his nose, trying to make as little noise as possible; he squeezed Scott’s hand and relaxed infinitesimally when he squeezed back.

“It’s a nemeton, I’d think even you could figure that out.” 

“Nemetons aren’t usually ill.” The footsteps walked a wide circle around the trunk, pausing on the side where Stiles had left the jeep.

“What do nemetons thrive on?” Deucalion asked, a smirk on his voice.

“Supernaturals?” Peter asked in a tone more suited to educating a small child. 

“Yes.” Deucalion growled, a low, grating noise that made the hair on the back of Stiles’s neck rise. A metallic scraping noise followed; he flinched, imagining claws scratching deep into the side of the jeep. “And with only me,” he paused, “and now you, it should have died years ago.” 

“The sparks are keeping it alive,” Peter muttered, almost too low for Stiles to hear.

“It creates the sparks to keep itself alive,” Deucalion corrected. “There’s at least three still loose in Beacon Hills. It’s _them_ we need to find.”

“I think we need to find these two first,” Peter said, tapping a heavy hand on glass.

Stiles scowled upward; they kept beating up his baby. He was going to kill them. 

Deucalion snorted. “Leave them. If they’re lost, that’s less people the town has to provide for.” 

“You know,” Peter mused, “when this tree dies, it’s going to affect me, too. I won’t be in top form.”

Deucalion said, impatiently, “Don’t worry about it.” 

There was a crunch of twigs and packed earth, followed by silence. Stiles braced himself, ears straining to hear them retreating. No more talking, no snuffling of them scenting the air, and, thankfully, no more beating up on the jeep.

“Dude, let’s go home,” Scott hissed, his hand sweaty in Stiles’s. 

“Hold on,” Stiles muttered. He couldn’t hear them anymore, but that didn’t mean they weren’t lying in wait. He counted to two hundred, twice, twisting his fingers up in Scott’s sleeve nervously the longer they sat there. The nemeton was still calm, which would have been a good thing if it wasn’t calm all the time.

“Alright,” Stiles said at last, his fingers cramping when he let go of Scott. “If they’re out there, we’re just hiking. That’s not against the law.”

“You’ll smell like magic,” Scott whispered urgently. 

“I’ll blame it on the nemeton,” Stiles improvised, praying to every god and deity he’d ever heard of that Peter wasn’t full of shit. His heart thumped with anxiety and exhaustion. 

It was too dark for Scott to fully see him, but he must have sensed something, because he breathed, “Are you okay?”

Stiles nodded out of habit, then rolled his eyes at himself. “Yeah, I’ll be fine once we get to the jeep.” He felt Scott move away from him and followed, keeping one hand outstretched so he could feel how far ahead of him Scott was. 

It felt like it took twice as long as usual to crawl through the tunnel. When Scott reached the opening, he hesitated, then pulled himself up and clear of the hole. Stiles tried to follow him, but he was still standing in the way. Before he could ask what he was doing, he turned, reaching back down to help pull Stiles out. 

“How’s my baby?” Stiles asked, more out of breath than usual. 

Scott didn’t say anything.

Stiles stumbled, catching Scott’s arm for support and yawning as he went. They walked around the trunk as quickly as Stiles’s legs would allow. His stomach rumbled impatiently and he scowled, placing his free hand over it and making hushing noises. The jeep was where he’d left it, with four long gouges across the rear driver’s side door. 

“The _fucker_ ,” Stiles spat, hobbling over to run his fingers over the damage. Each gouge was a couple inches apart. “I’m going to kill him.” 

“Let’s plan murder after we get home, yeah?” Scott reasoned, opening the driver’s door for Stiles and darting around to the other side. 

Stiles slid into the driver’s seat and shoved the keys into the ignition. The engine sputtered…and died. Stiles tapped his palm on the steering wheel, turning the key again. “C’mon, baby, come on, you’re fine,” he muttered, jiggling his left foot. 

Something under the hood jerked violently and hissed. He pumped the clutch, trying again and murmuring encouragement. There was a horrendous whine, followed by another hiss. Steam gushed from under the hood like a hemorrhaging wound. 

“Shit,” Stiles decided. Then, because that wasn’t good enough, “Shit, shit _shit!_ ” He leaped from the car, calling to Scott to pop the hood for him since he’d forgotten. Steam billowed up from under the hood when he opened it, so hot that Stiles jerked back so his face wouldn’t burn. “Scott, try to start it!” 

The jeep bounced as Scott climbed over the middle console and into the driver’s seat. The engine tried to start for him, and for one blissful second it sounded like it was going to work, then it coughed and died. It didn’t even bother trying when he tried again.

“Are we walking?” Scott asked, leaning out the door Stiles had left hanging open. 

Stiles slammed the hood, bracing his hands on it for a moment. His nostrils flared with his frustrated breath. He straightened up and ran a hand down his face. “Yeah.” He rubbed the back of his neck, preparing for the long hike in the pre-dawn dark. 

“C’mon.” Scott offered his arm for stability. 

They walked slowly through the trees, then along the service road. Stiles would deny ever needing Scott’s help, but a few steps in, the edges of his vision sparkled, his legs gave out, and Scott was the only thing keeping him from face planting. 

“Dude!” Scott gasped, his other arm wrapping around Stiles’s chest to keep him upright. He lowered him to the ground and knelt beside him. 

Stiles breathed heavily. “Ugh,” he said as he felt a fine tremor run through his limbs. “Sorry, give me a second.” He pressed his forehead against his knees, squeezing his fists and pushing the knuckles against the outsides of his thighs. 

“Sure,” Scott said, putting a hand between Stiles’s shoulders.

It was comforting, helped calm the shaking. He let out a slow, even breath. His arms shook as he pushed himself back up to his feet.

Scott rose with him, grabbing Stiles’s arm. “You alright?” he asked, holding his arm hostage. 

Stiles couldn’t gather the strength to scowl at him, let alone pull his arm away. “I’m fine. Just tired.” His knees were practically knocking together.

Scott tightened his grip and started walking, deliberately slow. “We’re not that far from the main road,” Scott said, squinting ahead. 

Stiles could _just_ see the Hales’ abandoned mansion, so they really weren’t that far at all. Still, that was just to the main road. They still had to walk all the way home, too. “I can make it,” he said, gritting his teeth. “I just…wasn’t anticipating the jeep not starting.”

Scott didn’t look impressed with him trying to foist off his…momentary loss of balance…on the jeep. “I know.” He pressed his lips together. “Neither of us were, or I’d have brought my cell phone.”

“Yeah,” Stiles huffed. 

They were passing the mansion when headlights flashed over a bump ahead of them. Scott raised a hand to shield his eyes.

Stiles turned his head. Who the hell in their right mind would come out here at this time? Aside from the dogs, of course, but they _weren’t_ in their right minds. He squinted, trying to see the car through the lights dancing in his eyes. Whoever it was was crazy, he decided. It certainly wasn’t Peter or Deucalion, because why would they bother with a car? He pulled Scott behind him as the car pulled closer.

The driver turned the lights off and rolled to a stop several feet from them. “What happened?” a familiar voice gasped, a figure leaping from the driver’s seat. 

“Murphy?” Stiles asked dumbly. 

“Jordan!” Scott called, side stepping Stiles’s protective stance. 

“Should you be driving with a booted ankle?” Stiles asked, brows furrowing in an expression his father had thrown his way thousands of times, no doubt. 

The hurried footsteps faltered, then continued. Jordan’s silhouette finally drew level with them. “What are you two doing out here?” he demanded in that firm, no-nonsense tone that must be taught at the police academy. 

“The jeep wouldn’t start,” Scott replied before Stiles could. 

“Where is it?” he asked, leaning around them and looking for the jeep, as if they were hiding it behind their backs and waiting to spring it on him. 

Scott hesitated. “By the nemeton.”

Jordan’s head snapped toward him. “Why-”

“We were hiking. Night hiking, it’s a thing, look it up,” Stiles said, hoping that if he spoke quickly and confidently enough, Jordan wouldn’t question it. Also that if he ever did manage to get Google to load, night hiking actually _was_ a thing. Somewhere. 

Jordan stared flatly at them, like he wasn’t buying their bullshit for a second. 

Neither did Scott, for that matter. 

Stiles flailed his arms out, insulted that Scott wasn’t playing along out of solidarity, and wobbled dangerously. 

Scott grabbed his right arm and Jordan lurched forward as well, nearly toppling himself over when his boot stuck to the ground. 

“Thanks, Scott,” Stiles mumbled. He fixed tired eyes on Jordan, another idea already stirring. He sagged more into Scott’s side, making himself giggle. “He expects us to admit we were drinking.” 

Scott looked like someone had slapped him with a fish, but, after catching Stiles’s eye, he recovered quickly. “ _You_ were drinking,” he corrected in a hushed-but-carrying voice, as if he hadn’t meant to be overheard. 

“Alright, you two.” Jordan ran a hand over his face. “Get in the car, I’ll take you two home.”

“No _pe,_ ” Stiles slurred, clinging to Scott’s arm like a leech. He waved his free hand at Jordan uncoordinatedly, letting it fly more naturally than he usually did. “Because then—then you’ll tell my dad. My dad will, he’ll do that _look_ and…nope.”

“Stiles,” Jordan said sternly. 

“Mike,” Stiles countered, then furrowed his brows as if he’d realized he’d used the wrong name. “Mitch. _Murphy,_ ” he said triumphantly, beaming at Scott. 

“C’mon, let’s get you home,” Scott said reassuringly. “John won’t be mad. Also, no more Mike’s hard lemonade for you.”

“No more for either of you.” Jordan frowned, placing a hand on each of their shoulders. “In the car.”

“No, you’ll tell Dad.” Stiles jerked away from both of them. With his energy drained from the magic he’d used, it wasn’t hard for him to stumble a few steps and tumble to his knees. 

Jordan was at his side in a second, putting a hand under his arm to help him to his feet. “Come on, kid.” He guided him to the back seat of his car, where Stiles stretched out, relaxing into the fabric.

He closed his eyes and listened to Scott getting into the passenger’s seat, closely followed by Jordan. 

Both doors slammed shut and for a moment, there was only silence. The driver’s seat creaked as Jordan shifted his weight. “Are you drunk, too, Scott?” he asked wearily. 

Stiles bit the insides of his cheeks to keep from laughing. 

“No,” Scott said. “I was designated driver.” 

Jordan blew out a breath. “That was smart, at least.” He started the car easily, pulling out in a wide circle to go back the way he came.

“What were you doing out here anyway?” Scott asked conversationally. 

“Someone called in an abandoned jeep—by the nemeton. Wasn’t expecting to find you two.”

“Who called it in?” Scott persisted, shifting in his seat. 

“Peter Hale.” Jordan tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. 

“What?” Scott gasped as Stiles tensed, fists curling at his sides. 

“He said no one was around, but that the owners could be lost. Figured I’d better check it out,” he said simply, like he truly believed Peter had good intentions.

“’Wolves don’t care about regular people,” Scott said, voice wavering slightly. “Why would he call _you_?”

“I’m on call tonight,” Jordan said slowly. “He called the police when he thought someone was lost in the woods. And ’wolves are supposed to protect those on their land.”

Scott scoffed, turning to look out the window. “So you side with the Argents. If we had been trying to leave, you’d have dragged us back because they want you to.” 

Jordan didn’t say anything.

Stiles felt sick. 

He tapped his fingers on the wheel, a quiet rhythm breaking up the silence. “He didn’t say he smelled alcohol,” he said quietly.

Stiles opened his eyes, watching Jordan’s face in the rearview mirror. “If the Argents' ’wolves aren’t outright lying, they’re lying by omission,” Stiles said, his words slipping and sliding against each other from exhaustion. “Don’t trust them.”

The tension in the car was palpable, and the back, where Stiles was, felt stuffy and humid. Stiles felt like he was going to vomit all over the back seat. There was a familiar bump before the car rolled over onto pavement. His stomach rumbled impatiently, twisting itself into a painful knot. 

“You alright?” Jordan asked warily.

Scott twisted to look back at him. 

“You want some air?” Jordan unrolled the window several inches until the hand crank wouldn’t turn anymore. “That’s as far as it’ll go.” 

“Thanks,” Stiles managed, closing his eyes and breathing in the crisp air. It was refreshing. Without even needing to look, he knew what street they were on, and which one they turned right on at the stop sign.

Jordan shrieked. It was a surprisingly high pitched, panicky noise coming from him, especially considering how calm and collected he usually was. The car swerved dangerously, squealing to a halt in the thankfully empty road.

Stiles sat bolt upright in time to see Scott leap from the passenger door and into the street. Stiles scrambled out, too, going to stand by him.

Jordan was strapped in the driver’s seat, arms flapping wildly near his head, swatting at a squealing black blur. The bat landed daintily upside down on the rearview mirror, squeaking insistently and staring over at Jordan like he was intruding.

“This is my car!” Jordan sputtered indignantly, glaring at the animal. “Out!”

The bat was not swayed by this. 

Jordan unbuckled his seatbelt, his movements slow and cautious in case the bat attacked again. He opened the door and slid from the car. 

The bat lurched from its perch, smacking Jordan on the back of the head with its wing as it cruised by. Jordan gaped in the stunned silence, looking around the street in bewilderment. 

“You really are a Murphy,” Scott said, wide eyed.

Jordan glared at him, then looked back at the car, double checking for any more hitchhikers. “Car’s clear, hop in,” he said, getting back in the driver’s seat. 

Stiles chuckled weakly, throwing Scott a nervous glance, but they both complied. 

“Fucker bit me,” Jordan hissed, examining his arm in the dome light. 

Stiles leaned forward between the front seats, resting his chin on Scott’s shoulder. “He’s Batman now, not Murphy,” he mused. 

Jordan dropped his arms loudly to his sides, turning to stare at Stiles blankly.

“Vampire,” Scott chirped. “Did the dome light burn your eyes? Can you smell our _blood?_ ” 

Jordan’s gaze slid slowly to Scott. 

“Chupacabra,” Stiles said triumphantly. “If he starts chasing goats, we’ve got to send him away.” 

“Beacon Hills doesn’t have any goats.”

“Oh, he’s fine then.”

“I’m not fine! I might have rabies!” Jordan snapped, swinging around to put the car in drive. “I’m going straight to the hospital once I get you two home.”

“You sure you don’t want us to escort you there safely?” Scott jibbed.

“You two ran! You didn’t even help me with the bat!” Jordan protested. He turned onto their street and pulled up to the house. “Will you two be alright?” he asked pointedly. 

Scott nodded, already out of the car and opening the back door for Stiles. “We’ll be fine. I’ve got him.”

Stiles waved, watching as Jordan bobbed his head and put the car in reverse to pull out. 

“He’s going to tell your dad,” Scott breathed. “He’s going to think we were drinking!” 

“I know,” Stiles said, turning to go to the door. “But he’ll let me explain what was actually going on, and it’ll be nice to have someone drive us to retrieve the jeep.”  
 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know how you liked it!

Stiles sat behind the circulation desk at the library, tapping his feet. John had taken him to retrieve the jeep that morning, complaining about how he would have to lie to Jordan about talking to Stiles about underage drinking. He wouldn’t, however, have to lie about grounding him. He’d lectured Stiles the entire drive about how reckless he’d been. He didn’t want to hear about how the nemeton’s magic covered up the scent of someone using magic. 

The scanner flickered as Stiles watched it. No one had come up to the counter in a while, which he was slightly grateful for, but mostly he was bored.

Scott sat down beside him, having finished fixing the movie rack. 

“I’m going to put the returns away,” Stiles announced to Scott, shoving his chair back and grabbing the cart of returned books.

“Have fun,” Scott mumbled, jiggling the computer mouse. 

 

Stiles had put away six How-To books, reorganized a shelf in the Science Fiction section after discovering a seventh How-To book among their ranks, and moved along to Young Adult when a hand landed on the cart, stopping him. Stiles took a deep breath and turned to face whoever was beside him. “Can I help you find something?”

Vernon Boyd looked back at him, one hand still resting on a book, a history novel, Stiles noticed. “I want this one,” Boyd said, lifting the book from the cart. _Ancient Curses_ was written across the spine. He turned to walk away, saying, “Thanks,” over his shoulder. 

“That doesn’t seem like your usual reading material,” Stiles said quickly, ready to talk to anyone who was within arm’s reach. 

Boyd paused, thumb running over the cover. “Dad wants it,” he said without inflection. 

“Deaton?” Stiles gaped unattractively. “That’s even more shocking than you. He’s more of a medical book kinda guy.” 

Boyd shrugged. “You don’t know us, Stiles.”

Stiles put a book on the shelf beside him. “I might not know you that well, but I know your library history.” He saw someone turn into the aisle they were in, but didn’t look away from Boyd.

He made a noise between a grunt and possibly the word, “Whatever.”

“Hi, Boyd,” Jordan said, and promptly tripped over nothing, throwing a hand out to catch himself on the cart. The cart, which was on wheels, immediately rolled forward. 

Stiles thrust his foot in front of the wheel, stopping its progress and saving Jordan from certain death.

“Thanks,” he gasped, steadying himself before letting go of the cart.

Boyd’s mouth twitched in amusement.

“You two know each other?” Stiles asked, surprised. Boyd was not known for his outgoing personality. 

He glared at him.

Jordan brushed a hand over the front of his shirt. “We met on the bus, the day I got here.”

“He sat next to me,” Boyd muttered. 

“I’m sure that was the only seat available,” Stiles teased, a grin sliding over his face. 

“It was.” He looked irritated about it, but considering Boyd looked irritated by about ninety percent of the population, that wasn’t surprising. 

Jordan looked between them, his brows furrowed slightly. 

Boyd switched the book between his hands, not saying another word. He just turned to head to check out. His arm brushed against Jordan’s as he passed. 

Jordan watched him go, still frowning. 

“You get used to him,” Stiles offered. “His dad’s just as quiet and cryptic. Neither of them really engages with the general public, but I think they’re both geniuses, technically speaking, so mostly it’s them not deigning to speak to the plebes. Especially ones they don’t know.”

“I actually came here to talk to you anyway,” Jordan said. He glanced around. “Are there chairs, or are you going on lunch soon?”

“Look, if this is about the other night—”

“No, I wanted to ask you about the Argents and their…” his already low tone faltered. “Wolves,” he finished. 

Stiles stiffened, gaze flicking around to make sure no one was around, or at least within earshot. “I’ll see if Scott can cover my lunch, give me ten minutes. I’ll meet you at the café next door?” He waited for Jordan to nod before pushing the cart back to the counter. 

Scott agreed to cover the break, squinting at Stiles to try and figure out if letting him go alone was a good idea or not.

“I’ll be fine,” Stiles muttered, tapping his fingers on the counter. 

“I’ll be here, yell if you need anything. It’s close enough that I’ll hear you.” Scott organized the various fliers that had accumulated on the counter. “Don’t eat the café out of business.”

Stiles jerked his shoulders and grimaced. “I’m not as hungry now.”

“Lies.” 

Stiles sauntered into the café, pretending to himself that he wasn’t meeting someone who potentially supported the Argents and their crazy. He saw Jordan sitting in a back corner, tucked away from the prying eyes of the baristas. He passed the red armchairs and scattered two top tables. 

“I’m surprised you made it this far into the café without maiming yourself,” Stiles said, forcing his tone to be light and joking. He pulled the chair back and sat down, watching Jordan expectantly. 

He grimaced. “Believe it or not, I’m not typically this clumsy.” 

Stiles huffed in amusement.

Jordan placed his elbows on the table, leveling his gaze at him. “You want coffee or a pastry or anything?” he asked, leaning back almost nervously and looking toward the pastry case.

“I’m fine,” Stiles said, confident that his stomach wouldn’t growl loud enough for Jordan to hear. 

“What’s-” Jordan hesitated, glancing at the staff. “Is this even a good place to talk?” His face twisted and Stiles understood; he wanted to talk about the Argents.

“Not really, but it’s as safe as anywhere else in town.” Stiles settled back in his seat and gestured expansively. “Ask away.”

“What do you know about the war?” He pressed his knuckles into his lips, leaning against the table as if he was bracing himself. 

Stiles drew a long breath, pondering how to reply. “It started as a family feud, I think. The Hales lived here, in that mansion by the nemeton. The Argents lived here, too, obviously. Somewhere.” He shrugged one shoulder. “Some people say the hate between them started when Derek Hale turned down Kate Argent, but I think it started way before that. Peter Hale and Chris Argent dated for a while, too, then that fell flat.”

Jordan looked uncomfortable and surprised, which wasn’t an unusual response to the history of Beacon Hills. 

Stiles ignored him and plowed on. “Apparently, after that first break up, Gerard got diagnosed with terminal cancer and requested the bite from the alpha and matriarch of the Hale family, Alpha Talia. I guess she denied him.” He jerked his shoulders.

Jordan rubbed his forehead. “Okay,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“Skip a while, Kate and Derek started dating. Derek tried to talk his mother into giving Gerard the bite for Kate, and _that_ caused friction.” Stiles lifted his hands and gestured around some invisible scene, illustrating the past drama. “Kate tried to kill them when Talia refused Gerard again. The fire ran them off the property but didn’t kill anyone. The Hales have been trying to kill the Argents and take their land back, and the Argents have been syphoning magic from sparks to hold them off and keep Gerard alive ever since.” He placed his hands flat on the table, signaling he was done. 

Jordan closed his eyes, breathing deeply through his nose. 

“It’s a lot to take in,” Stiles said. He let Jordan gather himself for a moment, then said, “The Hales almost got their land back a few times, but then the sparks started showing up.”

Jordan’s forehead wrinkled, but he didn’t open his eyes. “When did Deucalion come into the picture?” he asked tersely. 

“Almost a decade ago. Not long after the Hales were chased off. Sparks had started showing up just a week after they were gone. I think it was like two people that first week, one or two over the following week.” His voice faltered. “A few people tried to overthrow the Argents, made it into the mansion, even killed Victoria. They freaked out, obviously, and decided to find an alpha to bite and change Gerard. Deucalion was the only alpha in California who hated the Hales enough to do it.” 

“Gerard was _bitten_?” Jordan’s eyes flew open. 

“It didn’t take,” Stiles breathed. “They had two sparks in custody at the time. They were never seen or heard from again and Gerard _magically_ recovered.” He stared pointedly at Jordan, unable to read his expression.

“You remember the Hales and all of that?” He kept his voice soft, aware that he was treading thin ice.

“Not much,” Stiles admitted, playing with a loose thread on his pants. “I was seven. After that first time with the two sparks, Deucalion started seeking them out and the Argents started throwing festivals to distract the general public from the sparks.” Stiles smoothed the fabric of his pants. “By that point there were sparks hidden among everyone. They just stopped using magic, because that was the only way to blend in.” 

“You…knew…one of the sparks,” Jordan guessed, taking in Stiles’s carefully neutral expression. 

“Something like that,” he muttered, bouncing his leg up and down and refusing to look at him. “Do you trust Peter Hale?”

“Yes,” he replied almost automatically. “Are there still sparks in hiding?” he asked under his breath.

A dry smile twisted over Stiles’s face.

Jordan stilled, his face going blank as he realized what he’d said. 

“None that I know of,” Stiles said, which wasn’t technically a lie. He didn’t know of any sparks other than himself.

Jordan nodded slowly, his expression crestfallen as he realized the conversation was definitely over. “Any tips for surviving Beacon Hills?”

Stiles’s gaze snapped up to him. “Stop asking questions.” He stood up. “Don’t trust the dogs...And don’t drink the tap water.” He knocked his knuckles on the edge of the table. “I have to get back to work. Good luck.”


	5. Chapter 5

“Do we have to go grocery shopping?” Stiles asked, following Scott out of the library. “I didn’t eat _that_ much.” 

Scott stopped, pivoted, and blinked, just blinked, and managed, with those big brown eyes of his, to convey just what he thought of that lie.

Stiles flipped his hands up in exasperation. 

“We’ll need food for tonight, at the very least,” Scott said, reaching into Stiles’s hoodie pocket for the keys to the jeep. 

Stiles swiped them out of his hand and danced out of reach. “I’ll drive. I just don’t see why we have to go now,” he groused. “We just got off work. Some people go home and rest after working.” He unlocked the jeep doors, jumping into the driver’s seat. 

Scott got in and buckled, grinning at him like he’d won a game. 

The jeep sputtered to life, jerking forward when Stiles released the brake too fast. Thankfully they were one of only four cars on the lot and none of the others were nearby. Stiles grumbled all the way across the parking lot about how he was technically grounded. Irritation gave way to motivation as he urged the jeep forward, the idea of fresh food cheering him up. 

“Any ideas for dinner?” Stiles asked, getting up to speed on the main street. 

“Steaks?” Scott suggested, resting his arm on the door. “We’ve got potatoes and corn on the cob that should be used sooner rather than later.”

“Steak sounds good.” Stiles tapped his palms against the steering wheel. “Dad’ll be happy, anyway.” He bit his lip, but ultimately decided that one night of steak wouldn’t hurt. 

“That’s all that matters, right?” Scott teased, winking. “Keeping the sheriff happy?”

“Him and your mom, yeah. They’re the only two whose opinions matter.” Stiles nodded seriously, though a smirk started tugging on the corner of his mouth. 

“Mom’ll appreciate the steaks, too, she has off tonight.” Scott hummed some tune he’d made up. 

It didn’t take long to reach the grocery store with all of two stoplights between it and the library. Scott jumped from the car, ready to get the food and get out. Stiles couldn’t help but smile at his man-on-a-mission expression. He followed a few paces behind him. 

Danny glanced at them from behind the single open cash register but didn’t acknowledge them as he finished ringing up the person he was helping.

“Will we need a cart, you think?” Scott asked, hovering by the line of carts near the door. 

“We’re just getting steaks, we can carry that,” Stiles scoffed. 

They did not just get steaks. Stiles clung to the box of Lucky Charms, on top of which sat a jug of milk, insulated by bread, discount peanut butter, and buy-one-get-one-free jars of jelly. A box of waffles was propped under his arm, breakfast sausages clutched in his fist, and they’d only just made it to the meat department. 

Scott stared at the steaks, the 32 pack of bottled water in his grasp slowly slipping until he had to prop his foot up on the lip of the cooler, resting the case on his thigh. He looked slowly from Stiles’s loaded arms to a woman pushing a cart, looking relaxed as she did her shopping. Then he grabbed a pack of steaks from the cooler, stacking them on top of the case of water. 

“Do we need anything else?” Scott asked. “We should probably get some fruit.”

“We’ll survive without it,” Stiles grunted, trying to adjust his grip on the waffle box, which was covered in condensation and slipping. 

Scott nodded. “Alright.” He followed Stiles through the snack aisle, deliberately avoiding looking at the cookies and chips. 

The lady with the cart paused at the end cap, considering the last pack of water. She frowned at the price, then scooped it up efficiently, dropping it into the cart.

Stiles skirted around her and up to Danny’s now empty lane. He dumped his arm load onto the belt, letting out a heavy breath. “Hey, Danny,” he said. “Ready for school to start again?” he asked, moving over so Scott could set down the water. 

“Ready as ever. Holidays are never as exciting as people make them out to be,” Danny sighed. “Winter here just keeps getting worse anyway.” 

“Very true.” Stiles hopped up on the counter.

Danny barely paused as he was scanning the sausage to push him right back off. 

He landed on his feet, luckily. “Stupid global warming,” he muttered, taking up the task of bagging the items Danny slid at him. 

The lady with the cart that they’d seen a minute ago got in line behind them. 

Stiles vaguely recognized her as one of the teachers at the school, Jennifer Blake, most likely one he’d terrorized if the uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach was anything to go by. He jumped in front of Scott and slid his debit card before he could protest. Stiles flashed him a grin, typing in his PIN. 

Scott glared for a second, but the disapproval never reached his eyes; he stepped around Stiles to load bags onto his arms. 

“These water prices are ridiculous,” Jennifer snapped, not bothering to wait until she was actually in front of Danny to speak. “The gas station has cheaper water than this.”

Danny apathetically passed Stiles his receipt. “The gas station sells a twenty-four pack, not a thirty-two,” he said in a tone that suggested he’d heard the same complaint before. 

He probably had, Stiles realized, meeting Scott’s wide-eyed stare. 

“This is robbery,” Jennifer continued, loading the rest of her cart onto the belt. 

“I agree, but I don’t set the prices,” Danny said in an overly apologetic tone as his face grew tense. 

“Look, Blake, if you don’t want it, I’ll take it,” a man said, stepping up behind her in line. 

Stiles glanced over, spotting Harris, another teacher, looking bad tempered—which wasn’t unusual for him—and rumpled.

“There’s no more on the shelf and I need bottled water.” 

“Drink tap water, Harris,” she sneered. 

“The tap water’s basically liquid rust! Are you trying to kill me, woman?!”

“Have been for a year,” she snapped, “thanks for noticing.” 

“I don’t get paid enough for this,” Danny breathed, scanning items like the two weren’t arguing in front of him.

Stiles turned, nudging Scott in the direction of the doors. He grabbed a few bags from his arms and finagled the water until it rested against his hip. They were already loading the cargo area of the jeep with the bags when another shout came from the store about rising prices, like the cashiers had any control over the prices. 

“Dude,” Scott sighed, “just buy it or don’t.” He got in the car, closing the door to keep the brisk air out. 

 

The drive home was quiet. Stiles managed to get a radio station working, so they listened to fuzzy 80s music until they pulled into the driveway. 

“Mom’s awake,” Scott cheered, beaming as he spotted Melissa in the living room through the window.

Stiles smiled; Melissa working nights wasn’t just hard for her. He and Scott, especially Scott, felt like they hardly got to see her. Even on her days off she tended to stay awake all night to keep her body on the same nocturnal schedule. 

They lugged the food and water into the house in one determined, if breathless, trip. Scott threw his burden onto the table so he could give his mom a hug. 

Stiles left them to it and started putting away perishables first. 

Melissa cleared her throat after a second, so he set down the waffles on the counter and crossed back to the living room.

“Good morning,” he said, giving her a hug too.

She smiled, snorting at his word choice. “What’d you guys buy?” she asked, eyeing Scott as he stocked the cabinets. 

“Enough food to replenish what Stiles devoured,” he jibbed, laughing when Stiles squawked in outrage. 

Melissa slid her hands to Stiles’s upper arms, leaning back so she could give him a proper once over. She studied his face for a moment. She let him go and swung a hand up to cuff his head. “You know better,” she said, not bothering to chase him when he jumped back reflexively. “That’s dangerous!”

“I was helping Scott!” Stiles argued, conveniently leaving out the trip to the nemeton. “He didn’t have his new inhaler yet!” He threw Scott a betrayed look.

The coward ducked into the pantry, practically closing the door behind him. 

Stiles could swear he heard him laughing. 

Melissa glanced from Scott to the laughing pantry, her face softening. “It was still dangerous,” she said, though her face and voice had softened in gratitude. Apparently she hadn’t heard of their adventure yet. 

“I was careful,” Stiles insisted. “I smelled like artificial linen for a whole day.” 

Scott emerged from the pantry and immediately kicked Melissa and Stiles out of the kitchen when he started cooking. Stiles messed with the TV and VCR until _Jurassic Park_ began to play. He curled on the corner of the couch, grabbing the throw blanket from the back of it to pull into his lap.

“You got a movie working?” Scott called, peering into the living room.

“VCR. I wasn’t going to bother trying the DVD player,” Stiles replied, tucking his feet between the cushions. 

“Whatever works,” Scott agreed, shrugging and going back to the kitchen. 

The smell of dinner filled the house enticingly, making Stiles’s stomach rumble in anticipation. He paused the movie at the opening scene and twisted, throwing his arm over the back of the couch to look into what he could see of the kitchen.

“Smells good,” Melissa said, rising from the recliner. She stretched and ran her hands through her hair, untangling some of the curls. She wandered over to the front window to look outside, twitching the curtains. “John’s here,” she observed. Headlights flashed through the window. 

Stiles sat up, squinting through the bright lights at the cruiser, and frowned when he noticed two silhouettes in the front seat of the cruiser.

“Who’s with him?” Stiles asked, setting his feet on the floor. “Did he mention having company for dinner?” He stood up, letting the blanket slip to the couch. 

“Not to me.” Melissa shrugged. “Is it a problem?” She looked toward the kitchen. 

The headlights turned off and the dome light a came on, illuminating John and the passenger. “No way,” Stiles breathed, stepping toward the window. He stepped back again immediately. 

“Who is it?” Scott asked, trying to look over at them while he plated the food. 

“Looks like Deputy Parrish. He’s a cutie,” she added, patting Stiles on the shoulder as she passed to go unlock the door.

Stiles pressed his lips together, resisting the urge to cross his arms defensively. 

“Uh,” Scott said, voice growing muffled as he went back around the corner. “I guess we can feed one more. I don’t think we’ll have leftovers for lunch tomorrow, though.” 

“That’s fine.” Melissa nodded and stepped out of the way as the door opened, giving them space. She seemed to realize, as they stepped inside, how she was standing in the entryway, and laughed. “Welcome, Jordan,” she said with a teasing grin. “What a pleasant surprise.” 

Jordan smiled back, tugging off his coat and one shoe. “It was a surprise for me, too, to be honest.”

John kicked his own shoes off, lifting his head. “Smells good, Scotty. Tell me at least one of those steaks is for me.”

Scott laughed.

“Only if you eat the vegetables with it,” Stiles said, stepping around Jordan to hug his dad. 

“Kid, I’m so hungry, even the vegetables smell good.” John ruffled Stiles’s hair affectionately and dropped a kiss on top of his head. “How was work?”

“Not that busy,” Stiles said, following him and Melissa to the kitchen. 

Jordan hovered awkwardly in the entryway, shifting his weight onto his good leg. 

“Come take a seat, Murphy, we don’t bite,” John called. 

“Speak for yourself,” Stiles said, baring his teeth playfully as he flopped into a chair.

Melissa said, “Mmhmm,” and made John roll his eyes.

Jordan’s boot clunked awkwardly every other step as he entered the kitchen. 

“Check that out, lunch and dinner together. People might start to talk, Murphy.” Stiles smirked, kicking the spare chair out with his foot. 

John gasped, choking as a piece of pilfered potato went down his throat. 

“Joking,” Stiles cooed at his father at the same time Jordan said, “I’m taken.” 

“Ah, damn. Lucky person,” Stiles said, pressing a hand to his heart, then laughing when Jordan made a face at him. 

Scott cackled, trying to hide his face in the cup cabinet. 

“Explanation?” John demanded, staring over at Stiles. 

“He thinks he’s lucky.” Jordan grinned, sitting down in the chair Stiles had pushed out.

“Is he the person you followed here?” Stiles asked, frowning.

“Stiles!”

“Jordan wanted to know about the war from our point of view, we talked at the café by the library, it wasn’t actually lunch,” Stiles said quickly, almost knocking over a jug of juice. 

John settled back into his seat, seemingly content with that answer.

“Yes, Stiles,” Jordan smiled, “he’s the person I followed. And that came out weirder than it was supposed to be.” He grimaced. 

Scott dissolved into a fit of snickers, taking the last empty seat at the table. 

“How was your day?” Stiles asked, looking from Jordan to John and back. 

“Alright,” John said dismissively. He should’ve realized Stiles wouldn’t take that as an answer.

“What does that mean?” Stiles pestered, watching as his dad took an obnoxiously large bite of his potato. “Robbery? Lost dog? Cat suck up a tree?” 

Jordan smiled around his fork. 

John ignored both of them.

Stiles huffed indignantly and looked to Scott for help.

Scott shrugged and nudged a cup closer to Stiles’s plate, encouraging him to drink.

“Rude,” Stiles muttered. 

Jordan stifled a laugh.

John and Melissa cleaned up after dinner, shooing the other three out to the living room. 

Scott dove onto the couch, stealing the blanket Stiles had been using earlier. Stiles sat beside him, guarding the remotes until everyone else had followed them.

Jordan hovered near the door, gazing at the pictures on the wall. Most of them were of Scott and Stiles through the years. Jordan paused by a family portrait of the Stilinskis, his gaze flicking over Claudia and toddler Stiles, clearly taking in the features they shared, the freckles and brown hair, the wide brown eyes and fair skin that had Stiles slathered in sunscreen every time he left the house until he was about fourteen. The picture had quite obviously been taken before the town went shit. 

Stiles openly watched Jordan; he finished looking at the pictures by the door and stepped toward the couch, eyes skirting over the pictures there. Stiles bit the inside of his cheek. It hadn’t even been eight hours since he and Jordan had talked about the start of the war and the first wave of sparks. He could see the way Jordan was looking between a picture of young Stiles and Claudia, happy, smiling, to the pictures of a lone, pouty preteen, glowering at the camera. His gaze skipped to the next set of pictures, a happy teenager with an arm slung over Scott’s shoulders. 

It wasn’t hard to read the timeline. Stiles wrapped his arms around himself. Almost everyone in Beacon Hills knew his mom was caught by Deucalion, Jordan would have found out soon enough. Stiles pulled himself from his thoughts, focusing back on Jordan, who hadn’t moved from the picture he’d stopped on. His face cycled through several emotions as Stiles watched. 

He finally turned, the expression of awkward sympathy on his face reminiscent of the ones Stiles had been seeing his whole life. 

Stiles glared, daring Jordan to say something, anything, bring it up to John and ruin his night. 

Jordan never knew Claudia, hadn’t even been here long enough to hear the whole sad story, would never know the real truth of how sad it was. Who the hell was he to feel sorry for any of them? He’d probably just run to Peter or Deucalion anyway. Not that they could do anything now, she’d already been taken. Jordan blinked, stunned, at the sudden hostility. He lowered his head slightly and didn’t say anything. 

Stiles tucked his knees against his chest, looking away from Jordan. The TV screen flickered. 

Scott nudged him gently. 

Stiles wanted to snap at him, but he bit it back; Scott was just trying to help. He took a steadying breath, looking at his knees rather than the TV. “If you want to know, just ask,” he snapped. “Don’t just stand there looking sorry for us.”

Jordan took a step back, his booth skidding awkwardly over the wood. 

“Stiles!” Jordan called sharply, cutting around the corner into the living room to referee. 

“It’s not my business to ask any questions about that,” Jordan said at last, struggling to keep his tone neutral. 

For some reason his response only made the frustration and anger worsen in Stiles’s chest. He knew he’d have been upset if Jordan blatantly asked about his mom, but not asking seemed to be setting him off, too. 

“So, you aren’t even interesting in knowing _why_ the Argents and Deucalion are assholes?” Stiles dug his fingers into his jeans, pulling his knees almost painfully against his chest. 

“Stiles, enough,” John ordered, stepping between the two. He shot Stiles an alarmed, furious look. 

Stiles’s gaze shot over John’s shoulder to where Jordan had taken a step toward the door. _Great_ , he thought bitterly. _Now Dad’s going to blame me for chasing him off._ He ground his teeth together; the rushing of blood beneath his skin turned into the surge of magic. He buried his face in his knees, breathing in the familiar scent of their laundry detergent, trying to ground himself. The TV flicked off. The living room and kitchen lights dimmed and the fridge’s generator whirled on, desperately trying to keep its contents cool. 

Stiles stood up without saying a word. He could feel everyone’s eyes on him as he stalked through the living room to the backdoor. He could tell Scott couldn’t figure out whether he should follow him or not. 

He threw the door open and stepped onto the porch, then down the stairs. He stepped out into the lawn, tipping his head back. The ground was frigid under his bare feet, but he embraced the cold, focusing on it instead of the burn of sympathy from someone who didn’t even understand the situation. He let out a long sigh, sitting down on the steps.

After several long minutes, the back door opened and closed again.

Stiles didn’t turn around. If it were Scott, he’d have come right over to sit next to him. Melissa typically closed the doors quieter, and there was no distinguishing thump of a boot.

“I’m not sorry,” Stiles muttered, folding his arms tighter around himself against the cold. 

A blanket draped over his shoulders, pooling onto his lap and down his back. He looked up then.

John’s face looked worn, wrinkled from years of stress.

Guilt twisted Stiles’s stomach; most of those wrinkles and grey hairs were definitely from him. 

“Has the power come back on?” Stiles asked, finding a blade of grass to focus his attention on. 

“Not yet.” John groaned, easing himself down onto the step next to him. “It always turns back on eventually.”

Stiles glanced at him; he knew he hadn’t ventured out in the cold to talk about the electricity.

They sat in silence until John began shifting, the cold wood from the porch eating through his clothes. “You should apologize to Jordan,” John said. The tone was unfamiliar to Stiles in the current setting, more of a suggestion than an order. 

“I’m not sorry,” Stiles repeated, tracing patterns on the step with his fingertip. “He had that _look_.” His hand stilled. He looked up and out into the dark tree line.

“Jordan doesn’t know about your mom. This…issue is partially my fault,” John admitted, sighing and rubbing his face. “I never said anything because I assumed, wrongly, that he’d hear from someone else.” 

“He trusts _Hale_ ,” Stiles spat out the name. “And, by default, the Argents. He either doesn’t understand how bad they are, or he doesn’t _care!_ ” His voice rose with each word. He huffed, glancing back at the door to make sure Jordan wasn’t directly behind them.

“I think he understands more than you think, son. Maybe not about this precise situation,” John added when Stiles snorted angrily. “And you getting angry over a look isn’t going to help or make things easier. He’s still new and deserves to have friends here without teenagers jumping down his throat when he does what is socially considered _polite_ ,” he said pointedly. He put a hand on Stiles’s shoulder and squeezed, then used it to lever himself back to his feet. “Come back inside before you freeze to death, yeah?” He waited for Stiles to nod before going back into the house.

Stiles didn’t move yet. He could distantly hear John ask Scott to give Stiles a few minutes, while, even further away, Melissa announced that she was going to try to fix the TV. He strained his ears listening for Jordan, and for a moment thought he might have actually left.

A low voice drifted from around the corner of the house. “—fucking crazy.” Jordan sounded strained and muffled.

Stiles leaned to the left, listening for the rest of the conversation. 

“There were people outside the station demanding John do something about the Argents.” 

Stiles sat up straight, suddenly not cold at all. He braced a hand on the porch, tempted to creep closer to the side of the house to hear better, but the idea that he might give himself away on the creaky step stopped him. 

A lower, muffled reply came that Stiles couldn’t make out. He frowned, unable to recognize the voice. 

“People are getting more desperate.” Jordan sighed. “And John can’t help them because he’s already on the Argents’ watch list.” 

That unrecognizable voice rumbled again.

Stiles slowly eased himself down the steps, toward the ground quietly; it sounded like the person Jordan was talking to was _with_ him, here, at Stiles’s family’s house. 

“It wouldn’t be safe—yeah, we just came here.” Jordan’s voice faltered. “He doesn’t trust me.” 

Stiles stilled again. _That_ sounded like it was about him. He hesitated. To be fair, he _wanted_ to trust Jordan; he liked the guy, maybe even enough to convince Melissa to give him the Iron Man lunchbox. Jordan also trusted the dogs, which was an unforgivable offense or unjustifiably stupid. Stiles scowled, because he wasn’t sure which was the truth. Jordan would have to earn his trust. 

“I’ll keep you posted,” Jordan said at last. 

Stiles shot to his feet, determined to see who he was talking to. He was off the porch and around the side of the house in less than a minute.

Jordan looked over at him, blinking in apparent surprise. He stood alone.

“Who were you talking to?” Stiles asked boldly, looking around in case he’d missed something in the dark. 

“My friend,” Jordan replied. He tensed slightly, fumbling with his jeans pocket. He pulled out a slightly dated—but still technically new—smart phone and waggled it a little.

Stiles slowly raised his eyebrows. There was no way in hell that thing was any more than a paperweight in Beacon Hills. “Really,” he said, over enunciating. 

Jordan nodded, pushing a button to turn the screen on. It did, or at least, it gave it its best shot. The screen flashed white and grey, then flicked completely off. Jordan frowned, pressing the button insistently. The phone wouldn’t turn back on, or even pretend to try for him.

The hair on the back of Stiles’s neck stood on end. His gaze flicked toward the trees, but he still couldn’t see anyone, despite the distinct feeling that he was being watched. He looked back at Jordan. “Right,” he said flatly. “I’m going back inside. Sorry for snapping at you, I guess.” He didn’t feel sorry, but saying it would satisfy his father. John had never said anything about sincerity. He watched Jordan fight pointlessly with his phone for a moment before he gave up and shoved it back into his pocket, brows creased.

“It’s alright. We all have our secrets.” Jordan smiled, wide and warm, at him. 

“Yeah.” Stiles scowled, gut twisting. He turned, walking deliberately slow toward the door.


	6. Chapter 6

The electricity still wasn’t working when Stiles went back inside. Scott and Melissa had dug out almost all of their board games and spread them across the dining room table.

“Mom and I voted for Apples-to-Apples,” Scott said triumphantly.

John rolled his eyes in good humor. 

“Are you even surprised?” Stiles asked, smiling shakily and trying to brush off his conversation with Jordan. The man had shown him a smart phone, and had the audacity to claim it’d worked. The _liar._ Stiles gritted his teeth and sat down with them at the table.

 

Jordan ventured back into the house halfway through the first round of Apples-to-Apples.

Stiles didn’t look at him, but Scott glanced up. He looked at Stiles, a single brow raised. Stiles shook his head, a single twitch that Scott would understand but that a near-stranger might mistake for something else. He pressed his lips together, lifting his head.

“Do you play board games, Jordan?” Melissa asked, motioning to the last empty seat at the table. 

“Oh, no thank you.” Jordan smiled, edging toward the couch. “I’ve never really been good at them.”

“Is there anyone who’s actually good at board games?” Scott asked, catching a glimpse of Melissa’s frown. “They’re mostly luck.” 

Jordan continued to smile and shook his head. “I’ll pass. Thank you, though.”

Stiles slid his cards to Melissa, who had been the dealer. She and John looked at him, frowning in that way parents had to let you know they were simultaneously disappointed and worried. 

“I’m going to bed,” he said in a false-cheerful tone.

“Are you feeling alright?” John asked, laying his card down. 

“Yeah,” Stiles said. His shoulders drooped, expression softening as he let the weight of what had happened between him and Jordan wash over him. “I’m just tired.” He met John’s gaze. He _was_ tired, physically, mentally, _emotionally_. He wouldn’t feel completely at ease or rested while the Argents were running things. 

John’s shoulders heaved as he sighed, clearly reading what Stiles wasn’t saying in his expression. “Alright, kid.” He stood up and rounded the table. He wrapped Stiles in a hug, rubbing a hand over the back of his head. 

Stiles buried his nose in John’s shoulder, inhaling the familiar scent. 

He squeezed Stiles tight. “Sweet dreams.” He released him.

“I’ll try.” Stiles went and hugged Melissa, then turned to Scott and held his arms out. “You want a hug, too, Scotty?” 

Scott opened and closed his mouth, then stood and hugged Stiles. “Goodnight.” He let go and flopped back into his chair. “You just didn’t want to lose,” he claimed, grinning. 

Stiles looked past them to the couch, where Jordan sat. His smile twisted until he couldn’t hold it any longer and let his face drop into a scowl. He crossed the room to climb up the steps. If Jordan didn’t want to be honest, then he didn’t need to talk to him. 

The bedroom door squeaked when he pushed it open. He flopped face first onto his bed, digging his hands under his pillow. 

The power whirred on. From his spot on the bed, he heard the generator stop chugging, and the fridge went back to its usual low rumble. The _Jurassic Park_ music drifted up the stairs, under the door. Stiles closed his eyes.

Someone downstairs cursed, the music raised and lowered, then clicked off completely. 

 

Stiles woke in fits and starts the next morning, first at 1am, then at 3, then again at 5, then, finally, at 8. He glared at the clock. The library didn’t open until noon, so even if he and Scott walked, they wouldn’t have to leave the house until 11 at the earliest. 

Scott snorted softly, drawing Stiles’s attention. 

He rolled onto his back, flopping his arm over his eyes, trying to decide if he should even try to go back to sleep. His stomach and bladder clamored for attention. He huffed and rolled off the bed, landing softly on the balls of his feet. He crossed the room as stealthily as he could, narrowly avoiding the one creaky floorboard near the door by sheer luck.

After brushing his teeth and using the toilet, Stiles ventured down stairs. The living room was darkened by the drawn curtains, but the kitchen light cut a path through the floor for him to follow. Melissa sat at the kitchen table, a worn novel in her hands. She blinked up at him, recognition slowly filling her eyes.

“Sorry, hun.” She stifled a yawn behind her fist. “Took me a second to recognize you, thought you were Jordan for a second. You’re getting so tall.”

Stiles stiffened. “He’s still here?”

Someone in the living room stirred as if on cue. 

Stiles’s burgeoning good mood vanished. 

Melissa smiled. “I’m off to bed,” she said. “I work tonight, just so you and Scott know.” She stood up and pushed her chair in with her knee. 

“’Night,” Stiles muttered, sitting down at the table with a sigh. Of course Jordan was still in the house. 

Melissa brushed a kiss on top of his head as she passed. “Have a good day at work.” Her eyes crinkled up in amusement. “Try not to get in trouble.”

“Can’t make any promises,” Stiles quipped. 

She popped the back of his head with the heel of her hand and vanished around the corner. 

The couch creaked as Jordan sat up, blinking at the bright kitchen light. “John already left for work,” he yawned. 

Stiles startled, wondering why Melissa hadn’t told him that. He leaned forward to see Jordan better, his mouth twisted down in annoyance. “Why didn’t you go with him?”

Jordan rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Dr. Deaton wanted to meet with him, said it was urgent, and he only wanted John.” 

Stiles’s brows furrowed. “Weird.” He stood up and went to the fridge to get whatever leftovers there were. He returned to the table with chicken soup and half a ham sandwich. 

Jordan looked horrified. “That’s not breakfast food,” he muttered, eyeing Stiles skeptically. 

“Technically breakfast is any food you eat to break the fast you’ve done while sleeping,” Stiles said around a mouthful of chicken.

Jordan didn’t look impressed. If anything, he managed to look more horrified. “So, uh…” He ran a hand down his face. “I was talking to my…friend, boyfriend, and he and I think that if you wanted to meet him, we could all get together later.”

Stiles blinked at the jumble of what to him sounded like nonsense. “That seems random.” 

Jordan winced, throwing an arm over the back of the couch to steady himself. “He and I talked again after you went inside-”

“On the phone?” Stiles interrupted doubtfully.

“No,” Jordan said, “he came by in person.” 

“That seems more plausible,” he said, finishing off his sandwich. “So why didn’t he come in last night to meet everyone then?”

Jordan’s face cycled through several emotions, each one changing so fast that Stiles couldn’t identify any of them. “I had to talk him into meeting you,” he said at last. “He’s very secretive and likes to keep to himself-”

“It’s Beacon Hills,” Stiles snapped, almost knocking the bowl off the counter with a rogue hand. “Everyone knows everybody, the chances of me _not_ having met him before are slim to none.” 

Jordan didn’t speak for a minute. 

Stiles figured it was to make sure he wouldn’t interrupt again, but he didn’t really care. 

“If you want to meet him,” he began on a long sigh, “please keep an open mind.”

“Have you been taking cryptic lessons from Deaton?” Stiles demanded, getting up to take care of his dishes. 

Jordan remained quiet.

Stiles let the bowl fall into the sink, hands resting on the edge. “Why did you lie about the phone call? Why didn’t you just say he was there? And why did he hide when I came around the corner?” Stiles turned to face him, his back pressed against the sink and palms braced on either side on the counter. “You randomly show up in this town, saying you came here to be with him. We try to help you learn the ropes, you keep secrets and lie to us. Which makes me suspicious, because that’s what Peter and Deucalion do.” Stiles huffed.

Jordan tensed, eyes narrowing. “There was no alcohol in or around the jeep the morning I found you and Scott in the woods. And there hadn’t been any in there for months,” he said, voice growing in confidence with each word. “In fact, the last thing in the jeep even close to alcohol was a kombucha drink that had been spilled on the floor of the passenger seat.” He took a deep breath through his nose, letting it out through his mouth. “Do _you_ want to talk about secrets?”

Stiles glowered at him, heart pounding in his chest, a horrible tightness in his lungs making them ache with every breath. Jordan didn’t know anything about him. He didn’t know what it felt like to constantly look over his shoulder to make sure Deucalion or Peter weren’t behind him. Deucalion hadn’t even been at the park the day his mother was claimed. The magic was so strong, it was like he just appeared, drawn there by the force of the spark. Stiles’s throat closed, his breath coming faster, labored and uneven. 

“Stiles?” From the insistent sound of Jordan’s tone, it wasn’t the first time he’d tried to get his attention. 

Stiles pushed himself away from the sink. 

Jordan stood next to the couch, hand braced on the armrest. 

Stiles only just noticed that his ankle was free of its boot. “I’m fine,” he said. He forcefully steadied his breath. He wasn’t sure what Jordan had actually said aside from his name, but the “are you okay” question was pretty common. “I’ll keep an open mind, but I have questions,” he said grudgingly. 

Jordan nodded, easing down to sit on the armrest of the couch. “He’ll have to answer those,” Jordan said, tone considerably softer. “And at his own discretion.” 

Stiles frowned, but it seemed like that was as good as the situation was going to get. He focused on his breaths, in, out, steady, until his head felt clearer. Any answers at all would nice, at this point. “Can you answer one now?” he asked, sitting down at the table. 

Jordan’s shoulders dropped slightly. “Maybe. What is it?”

“Would you, or your boyfriend, ever hand a spark over to the Argents?” Stiles looked him straight in the eye. 

“Do you know someone who is one?” Jordan asked deliberately. 

“Answer?” Stiles muttered He rested his head in his hands. Jordan had already figured out Stiles’s mother was one, so, in theory, he wouldn’t have to think too hard about the question. Stiles waited in silence before looking up to see Jordan considering the question.

“I wouldn’t,” Jordan finally said, loosening the panic in Stiles’s chest. “But I don’t know if he would.”

Fear seized Stiles’s lungs like a vice. “And you trust him,” Stiles said, his voice distant, foreign, even to him. 

“Yes.”

That was all Stiles needed to hear. Even if Jordan wouldn’t tell the Argents himself if he found out that Stiles was a spark, chances were he would mention it to his boyfriend, and the boyfriend might turn him in. He reasoned with himself. At least if he knew who the boyfriend was, he would know to avoid them, or at least be careful around them. 

“Stiles?”

“Lots of Febreze,” he muttered, thoughts slipping out of his mouth like his brain had sprung a leak. Par for the course, anyway. “Yeah?” he asked, looking up. 

“Are you alright?”

The “yeah” was half-formed on his lips before it died. “No, not really.” He met Jordan’s gaze but didn’t elaborate.

Jordan pressed his mouth into a thin line, nodding understandingly, which only added to Stiles’s growing disdain of him. He couldn’t possibly understand. 

Footsteps stumbling down the hall signified Scott’s arrival. He paused at the bottom of the stairs. “Morning, Jordan,” Scott said sleepily. He looked between Jordan and Stiles, sensing the tension.

“Morning,” he replied, looking away. 

“Jordan invited us to meet his boyfriend.” 

Jordan’s head snapped to Stiles, eyes widening.

He’d never specified that the meeting had to _just_ be Stiles, so Scott was coming. 

“He did?” Scott asked, waking up faster. He looked pleased. 

Jordan tilted his head. “I-”

“Yep!” Stiles lifted his head off his hands. “Did you have a time in mind, Jordan?” he asked pleasantly. Now that he’d said it, he was dead set on having Scott here. 

He stared at him, taken aback. “Ah…What time do you have to be at work? Or we can get together afterward.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “He said the station would be best to meet since you’re familiar and comfortable there.”

Stiles stiffened, glancing at Scott. “Do you have a preference?” 

“Before, I guess,” he said, shrugging. He glanced at the microwave clock. “We start at twelve, and we’re just meeting him, right?”

Jordan nodded, face pinched in what was probably nerves. “I’ll let him know.” He pulled his phone from his pocket absently, like it was muscle memory. The device chirped and whirred noisily. 

Stiles considered asking if it was actually a birdhouse in disguise, but somehow managed to bite his tongue. Growth! 

“You’ll probably need to take it outside for it to work,” Scott suggested. He shrugged and bypassed the couch to get to the kitchen. “Or you can use the landline.” 

Jordan’s jaw tensed for a second, then he sighed. “I’ll get dressed and try again outside. I could use some fresh air anyway.” He scooped up his wrinkled shirt and jeans from the day before and shuffled off to the bathroom.

“Okey doke,” Scott said, pulling out the Lucky Charms. He glanced between the box and jug of milk for a moment.

“Just use a bowl,” Stiles said, guessing what was running through his mind as if he had a variable message sign pasted to his forehead. 

Scott grinned at him like he hadn’t just considered eating it out of the box.

 

Breakfast was quiet. Stiles was amazed Melissa didn’t wake up in a blind panic at the lack of noise, honestly. At some point after Scott’s second bowl of cereal, Jordan stumbled from the bathroom, his hair and face wet from the sink. He nodded at them as he passed, letting himself out the front door.

“How far do you think he’ll have to go to get a smart phone to work?” Scott asked around a mouthful of marshmallows. 

Stiles made a face at him and shrugged, nursing the cup of coffee Scott had made him. 

He leaned back to try and see Jordan from the kitchen window. “He didn’t actually invite me, did he?” he asked. “To meet the boyfriend?”

“No,” Stiles admitted. “But he never said you couldn’t come, and there’s no way in hell I’m going alone.” He slapped the cup down, slashing hot coffee over his hand. He cringed, wiping it off on his pants. “Apparently this guy isn’t above ratting out sparks.” 

Scott threw him a wide-eyed look. “And it’s a good idea to meet him?”

“I don’t know anymore,” Stiles sighed. “I figured at the very least I’ll know who to be careful around, you know?” 

He nodded thoughtfully. “Fair enough.”

Jordan reentered the house roughly 30 minutes later, cheeks rosy and slightly out of breath. 

“How far did you go?” Scott asked, amused as he watched Jordan fish through his utility belt that he’d left in front of the couch. 

“Just to the corner of the street,” he replied, distracted. 

Stiles and Scott looked at each other. That was twice as far as either of them had ever needed to go.

Jordan let out a triumphant grunt, holding up his car keys. “I’m ready whenever you two are.” 

“When did you get your car?” Stiles asked, frowning and getting up.

“This morning.” Jordan rubbed his eyes. “Are you guys coming or not?” 

“Yeah, we’re coming,” Stiles muttered.

Scott made an agreeable noise around his last bite, walking to the sink with the bowl as he drained the milk.

 

Jordan started the car to warm it up before Scott or Stiles had even gotten their shoes on. 

“You use your car a lot,” Scott observed, stepping onto the porch behind Stiles. He turned to lock the door, knocking Stiles’s arm with the backpack slung over his shoulder. It held their lunches and work clothes, but it packed a punch.

“So?” Jordan asked. The beeping to indicate an open door blared across the driveway as he hopped into the car. 

Scott jumped down the porch steps and crossed to the car. He grinned and got into the passenger’s seat, calling out, “Shotgun!” before slamming the door. 

Stiles rolled his eyes and got in the backseat. 

“Most cars don’t work long here, or don’t work well,” Scott said. “The police cruisers are almost constantly in the shop. You should know that.” 

Stiles rested his chin on the door, watching the familiar scenery as Jordan backed out of the driveway and started down the street. The station came into view rather quickly, which wasn’t surprising. If it was a short walk, it was a practically non-existent drive. The lot was empty.

“Dad’s not here?” he asked, sitting up straighter.

“No. Maybe Deaton wanted to meet him at the hospital,” Jordan offered, shrugging.

“Do you think Boyd got in trouble?” Scott asked as they parked.

“I don’t think so.” Stiles pressed his lips together, eyeing the empty spaces. “Your boyfriend doesn’t drive, Jordan?”

“Not here, he doesn’t.” He motioned for them to get out, turning the car off.

“Is he here?” Scott asked, climbing out and shutting the door.

Jordan pulled the station keys from his pocket, stepping up to the door. “He said he would be.”

Stiles squinted at him; it looked like he was having second thoughts.

“Please,” he said, hesitating beside the door, “keep an open mind. He’s a really nice person.” 

Stiles frowned. He didn’t have much use for _nice_. Nice could mean anything. Nice didn’t necessarily mean _good._

Scott shot Stiles a concerned look. 

Jordan unlocked the door, letting it swing open to reveal the empty lobby.

They stepped in behind Jordan. Stiles looked around, his gaze traveling over the empty seats, the organized desk. He stared toward the hallway. 

“No one’s here,” Scott pointed out. 

Stiles stepped forward, peering down the hall. Goosebumps rose up on his arms. _Someone_ was here. “He came through the back door.” Stiles lengthened his stride until he closed the distance between himself and the opening of the hall. His skin crawled, tingling almost like it did when he used magic. His heart tripped, imagining himself stamping down the magic inside of him like a fire. Now was not the time and certainly not the place. 

“You brought both of them.” 

Stiles’s blood ran cold, his throat closing. He knew that voice.

Behind him, Scott froze, mouth hanging open like it’d come unhinged.

“Hey, Peter,” Jordan said, a smile on his voice. “How’s it going?”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting a little early! Please enjoy and let me know what you think!

Peter Hale sauntered down the hall toward Stiles. 

Stiles stumbled back, matching him step for step, while Scott remained frozen where he stood beside Jordan. 

“Fine so far,” Peter said, baffling Stiles, who’d forgotten that Jordan had technically asked him a question. He stopped at the end of the hall to lean a shoulder against the wall. “Nothing too exciting.”

Stiles stopped beside the desk, his heart hammering; he glared first at Peter, then at Jordan. He knew that Jordan had no proof, but all he could think was that this was a trap, and that this was _it._ He was acutely aware that Peter could hear his pounding heart and smell his fear, or his anxiety, a mixture of the two, his terror sweat. “What are _you_ doing here?” Stiles demanded, the burn of Jordan’s betrayal making his voice sharp and steadier than he expected. 

If the surprised look on Peter’s face was an accurate indicator of his emotions, he wasn’t expecting outright fury. 

Stiles smiled smugly and the expression vanished. 

“Jordan asked me to come meet you,” he said. “I wasn’t expecting both of you.” He tipped his head to the side, completely at ease.

“We’ve already met,” Stiles ground out. His gaze snapped to Jordan, hard and accusing. 

“But have we _really_ met?” Peter drawled, a smirk curling his mouth. “We could be friends,” he offered. 

Stiles laughed. He hadn’t meant to laugh in the face of someone who posed such a threat. Logically, he knew it wasn’t smart, but logic had left the building when he’d seen Peter strolling through the halls like he owned the place. “You’re brainwashed,” he told Jordan flatly. 

Peter growled, clamping his jaw shut so it came out muffled and low. 

Jordan stared blankly back at Stiles. “I’m not. Keep an open mind, plea-”

“Why? So we can be brainwashed, too?” Stiles exploded, throwing his hands up. “Jordan, I apologize for being short tempered with you,” he said. “Now I understand why you believe what you do.”

“Do you, Stiles?” Peter interjected, straightening up and folding his arms. “And what is it you think you understand?”

“Yes!” Stiles shouted, puzzle pieces falling into place.

Scott shook his head warningly from behind Jordan, taking shuffling steps back toward the door.

“You,” Stiles said, jabbing a finger at Peter, “keep feeding Jordan lies about how the Argents are doing good things, keeping Gerard alive, killing sparks when necessary. Telling him how great and amazing you are to help those in _need_. Stockholm Syndrome, anyone?” he taunted, letting out a mean little laugh. 

Peter bared his fangs, claws flashing along where his arms were still crossed. Flecks of red popped up on his skin where they pierced his skin. 

Stiles stood straighter, his temper stoked by the display. 

“I knew a tenth of what the Argents were doing before I came here,” Peter growled, his words so garbled by the fangs that Stiles had to replay them in his head before he understood.

“So you started _training_ him before you left,” Stiles shot, hands balling into fists.

“I’m not trained or brainwashed,” Jordan said, stepping between the two of them. 

Peter forced the shift away, features melting back to human. He looked away, jaw clenched but clearly acquiescing to Jordan’s silent request. 

Stiles didn’t move. His fingernails dug into his palms so deep that he was surprised blood wasn’t running down his hands. 

“Both of you need to stop talking about me like I’m not standing right here. This isn’t an action movie where you two get to have a pissing match while I stand around looking upset.” Jordan took a slow, deep breath. “Stiles, Peter came here to learn more about the Argents so the Hales would have an advantage,” he said, a bite of impatience in his voice. “They were losing ground and this was the easiest way to get an edge.”

Stiles’s face twisted. “He handed over information about his own family, his _pack_ , which _you_ told me was the most important thing to a werewolf, to help them get an edge?” Disbelief and disdain dripped from his words. “Does that make _any_ sense?” he snapped. “Please, enlighten me, because right now, it just sounds to me like you’re buying his crap.” 

“It makes sense if the information is _false_ ,” Jordan said, somehow remaining calm. Behind him, Peter stiffened, his face losing color. Apparently that wasn’t information he’d agreed to share when they discussed the meeting. 

Stiles inhaled through his nose, assessing the situation. Peter hadn’t moved, and he didn’t look ready to attack anymore. Stiles looked at Jordan. “If he was playing double agent, why kill Liam?” Stiles asked, his voice softened with the grief of knowing a kid younger than himself was dead because he was protecting people. 

“He had to blend in,” Jordan reasoned. “That’s why he was sent here and not someone else. He does what has to be done.” He took a deep breath, his shoulders relaxing now that the tension had mostly dissipated. “Even if he doesn’t like it,” he added quietly. 

Stiles bit his cheek, not sure if he believed either of them. This whole thing could’ve been an act, a way to get another Argent spy on a typical civilian level, extra eyes and ears. “What are _you_ doing here, then?” He watched Jordan shuffle to the desk, leaning against it.

“We hadn’t heard anything from Peter in a while and we—I got worried.” He glanced at Peter sheepishly. “Figured I could find work here and help, if I could.”

“By turning in sparks?” Stiles snapped. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew he sounded way too defensive, like he was taking all of this entirely too personally, knew that he should stop and throttle back. He couldn’t seem to help himself. 

Jordan’s face fell. “I told you. I wouldn’t. I won’t.” 

“But _he_ would.” Stiles jerked his chin at Peter. Whatever his so-called reasons, he was no better than Deucalion. Peter would turn him in if he knew, if not for the Argents themselves, then for better standing _with_ them, which was just as bad. Stiles’s throat filled with bile. 

Peter didn’t say anything, but he didn’t have to. His expression remained stoic and removed. His eyes, when they met Stiles’s, were cold. 

Stiles had had enough. He looked at Scott by the door. They could walk to the library from here. He refused to ask Jordan for a ride. 

“If I said that was a one-time thing,” Jordan said, “would you believe me?” His voice was wrung out, head lowered.

Stiles stared back at him; he looked exhausted. “No,” he said flatly. 

Jordan’s shoulders slumped.

“That “one-time” could have been my mother,” Stiles said coldly. _Could have been me._ “That _one-time_ was someone’s son. He was a freshman,” he said, flinging the words like they had physical force. “Did you know that? I tutored him a couple times when he fell behind because he broke his arm in three places and was in the hospital for a little while. Scott helped him try out for the lacrosse team. He was a _kid_.” 

Jordan nodded, and even Peter looked like he’d suddenly had a realization; Stiles knew why. His outburst had had the unexpected but helpful side effect of making it seem like the reason he was so upset was Liam and had nothing to do with himself. 

“You can’t just treat people like collateral damage,” Stiles said harshly, stepping away from them and toward the door. 

“Stiles,” Jordan began. 

“Let them go,” Peter said. 

Stiles didn’t look back. He grabbed Scott’s hand and towed him out of the building. The air was cold—at least, it should have been, but Stiles couldn’t even feel it. Scott had to quicken his pace so he wasn’t being dragged. Stiles caught a glimpse of him watching him warily out of the corner of his eye.

“Do you believe them?” Scott asked once Stiles had rounded the corner and slowed to a more relaxed pace.

“Do _you?_ ” Stiles countered, dropping his hand at last. 

“It would be nice to have more good people in town,” Scott muttered, adjusting the straps of the backpack. 

“Peter ratted out Liam.” 

“I know,” Scott sighed, visibly deflating. 

“I’m done with their war,” Stiles spat.

“I know,” Scott repeated. He pressed his lips together. “I think everybody is.” He pulled his brows down. “Are you going to tell your dad?”

Stiles sighed. “No. He’ll just talk to Murphy and I don’t want him to be dragged into that.”

“Shouldn’t he be the one to decide what he gets into or not?” Scott asked carefully. 

“I don’t know what I’d do if I lost both of my parents, Scotty. He can’t be involved in—whatever this bullshit is.” He kicked a loose piece of concrete across the street to express himself. It bounced over the opposite curb, coming to rest at the base of the post office. 

Scott nodded.

They walked the rest of the way in silence. Stiles felt slightly nauseous by the time they turned onto the street the library was on, and he had thought so hard about what had just happened that his head was pounding. It wasn’t until he was almost to the door that he realized something was wrong. 

Scott had stopped walking a few paces behind him, staring at the door in horror. 

Stiles looked up. A sheet of paper hung above the handle, taped from the inside so no one could tear it off. The large fancy writing made Stiles’s heart stutter in recognition. 

_The Library will be closed for the remainder of the week and will reopen the following Tuesday in regards to the celebration of a new spark!_

Stiles’s stomach fell somewhere around his knees, a cold sweat breaking out over his skin. He sucked in a sputtering gasp and continued to read. 

_Enjoy the festival and your time off! If you happen to see Deucalion—_ something in Stiles’s chest loosened. At least Peter hadn’t dragged in whoever this was— _please congratulate him and the brand-new spark, Vernon Boyd III_.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic isn't finished yet; I just felt like throwing up another chapter because the last one was so short!

Stiles sat at the kitchen table, head resting in his hands, staring blankly down at the table top.

“Boyd’s a spark?” Melissa whispered. She was by the fridge, frozen halfway through pulling out her lunch. 

Scott sat on the counter, drumming his heels against the lower cabinets. He waved his hands in a Stiles-esque manner. “I guess! There aren’t any other _Boyd the thirds_ living here.”

“Poor Deaton.” Melissa set her lunch on the table, frowning worriedly. “Isn’t Boyd in your class?” she asked, drumming her fingers next to her food. 

“Yeah,” Scott sighed. “Will you see Dr. Deaton tonight?” he asked, scooting across the counter so she had more room to prepare her lunch. 

“Unless he took time off, then yes.” 

“Even if he did, he wouldn’t be able to see Boyd.” Stiles’s voice cracked from lack of use. He watched them through his laced fingers, using their familiar presence to keep himself calm. 

“The time off is more of an adjusting period, I think,” Melissa said carefully, shooing Scott off the counter. 

Stiles looked back down at the table, his leg bouncing up and down anxiously. Two sparks had been claimed within a week of each other, which was a ridiculously short amount of time. 

“Do you think the nemeton is getting desperate?” Scott asked quietly, sitting on the table.

Melissa frowned at him until he slid guiltily into a chair. 

Stiles shrugged and shook his head, because he didn’t know. The roll of tires over the driveway marked John’s return, making Stiles sit up straight. 

Melissa finished packing her lunch and kissed both of their heads on her way out of the kitchen. “Be very careful, please,” she said before she opened the front door. She stepped around John as he came up the porch, murmuring a goodbye as she left.

John took off his hat and coat, kicking his shoes in the general direction of the shoe rack.

“Dad,” Stiles gasped, shooting to his feet. 

“I know, kid.” He crossed the room and pulled Stiles into a crushing hug. 

“He was in my class.” He pushed his face into John’s shoulder, taking in a deep, shuddering breath.

“I know,” John repeated, running his hand up and down Stiles’s back. “Deaton was asking me some questions about when your mom was taken.” He swallowed heavily. “He’s bracing for the inevitable.” 

“What happened?” Scott stood, hovering nervously at their shoulders.

John took a long breath; Stiles pulled back to see his face. Even if he didn’t tell them, they’d find out soon enough from whoever else witnessed it. “Jackson Whittemore was trying to pick a fight with him.” He sighed and sat at the table, so both boys followed suit. “Jackson grabbed a lacrosse stick and went to hit him with it. Next thing everyone knew, Jackson was thrown across the field and Boyd had a sigil down his jaw and neck.” 

“What were they doing at the school?” Scott demanded, outraged. 

A pit formed in Stiles’s stomach. Boyd had just been saving himself. Just like Stiles’s mom had been saving him. 

“Jackson was practicing. I’m…not sure about Boyd.”

“Wo-ow,” Scott breathed, wide eyed. He stood and rummaged through the fridge and cabinets, each twitchy movement to the next making Stiles think he just wanted something to do with his hands. 

Stiles felt nauseous. There was going to be another festival already, another person dragged from their family, another life torn apart. “Goodnight,” he said, shoving his seat back from the table loudly.

John looked up at him, concerned, but he didn’t try to stop him.

“Goodnight,” Scott said, watching him flee the room. 

 

Usually, during festivals Stiles camped out in the house, only leaving on rare occasions if he began to go stir-crazy or wanted to visit John at work. He did not plan on spending this one any differently. The next day, he woke to a plate of waffles on the dresser. He glanced at Scott’s empty bed, then at the light streaming in through the window. According to the clock, it was past noon. Good, he decided. The day was already half over with. Stiles stretched, shoved his blankets back, and got out of bed, rubbing his face as he made his way to the bathroom. After a fast shower, he returned to the bedroom, snagging the plate on his way downstairs.

“Thank you, Scott,” he said, hopping off the bottom step. The living room was empty. He frowned. He set the waffles on the table by the back door and opened the blinds, peering into the backyard. He frowned and went to do the same to the front window. “Huh,” he said quietly, walking back through the house to the kitchen, which was also empty. His gaze slid over the counters, where they usually left notes for each other. A single sheet of paper sat next to the sink. 

‘ _Mom called. I need to go back to pharmacy to exchange inhaler, something about contaminated batches. She didn’t specify. I might be back before you get up but if not ETA home 10am –Scott_ ’

Stiles looked at the stove clock to double check the time. Half past one. His stomach tightened. The backpack Scott usually carried wasn’t by the door, so he probably had the cellphone. He grabbed the landline off the wall, punching in the cell number from memory. The phone rang twice, then clicked off. He slammed the receiver down, then picked it up again, redialing. It didn’t even bother ringing this time. He hung it up, rocking back on his heels. Maybe Scott would be back soon. He looked around the kitchen, as if some sign was going to appear of Scott’s impending return.

Naturally, nothing was different. He shifted his weight, tapping his fingers against his thighs anxiously. Was Scott okay? Did he get a replacement inhaler? Why did he need one anyway? Did he use the “contaminated” one and how did an inhaler get contaminated anyway? What would happen if he _did_ use the contaminated one? Would he need medical attention? He swore under his breath and snatched a blue highlighter out of the cup of pens near the wall, scribbling his own note beneath Scott’s. 

‘ _Past 1_ ,’ he wrote, ‘ _went to look for you. If you get home, STAY HERE. –Stiles_ ’ He tossed the highlighter on the counter beside the page and went to grab the waffles. He sighed at them mournfully and put them in the fridge. He jogged back up to his room, throwing on the first clothes he put hands on that didn’t smell horrible.

He ran back downstairs and snagged his red hoodie from the closet, stuffing the spare keys in his pants pocket. Well, he thought as he pulled the door shut behind him, the festival hadn’t started yet. 

By the time he hit the sidewalk, he could smell it, the scents of food carts, fried foods, sweet treats, cooking meats. It made him nauseous. He clenched his jaw; once he found Scott, he was dragging his butt home, making a blanket and pillow fort in the living room, and hiding there until the whole ordeal was over. He imagined himself already there as the scents grew stronger the closer he got to the heart of town. He turned onto a backroad that would eventually take him to the hospital. He figured he’d might as well retrace Scott’s steps, see if he got caught up there. 

He made the walk on autopilot, tuning out the distant music that would soon be so loud it would penetrate the walls of the house, it would shake the windows and pulse like a living thing and Stiles would remember the day his mother was taken with every beat. 

Someone cheered, their distant voice indistinguishable to him. Relief flooded him against his will when the hospital came into view, his hopes rising for no reason. He quickened his pace, racing across the parking lot. He almost smacked into the automatic doors when they didn’t open fast enough, making the lone woman in the waiting room laugh around what looked like a broken nose.

The pharmacy that had been slammed just a few days ago was barren. Lydia was behind the counter again, a textbook open in front of her with notes stacked neatly around her. 

“Scott here?” Stiles asked, putting his hands on the counter. He hadn’t realized how out of breath he was until he spoke.

She lifted a delicate eyebrow. “He was. He left a few hours ago.” 

Stiles sighed harshly. “Do you know where he went?” he asked. He glanced toward the door, then back at Lydia. “Did he get that new inhaler?”

She frowned, flipping her textbook closed around her pen. “I’m not his mother, Stilinski. I don’t keep tabs on him.” She plucked a hair tie from the counter and pulled her hair back. “And, no, the inhalers are on back order. The shipment we had received doesn’t have enough of the actual medication in it,” she added before he could ask. “He kept the old one, if that makes you feel better.” 

“How would it be any help if it doesn’t have the medicine?” Stiles snapped, his heart stuttering in his chest. 

“It has _some_ ,” Lydia corrected meticulously. “It would give some aid in a pinch, though it is obviously preferable to have the full dosage.” 

Stiles glared at her in misplaced anger. It would be easier to snap at her than it would be to just accept the situation. The door opened and closed behind him. He spun around, a lecture for Scott about lingering when he said he would be back soon already forming on his mouth, and found himself facing Dr. Alan Deaton. 

Their gazes met; the breath seemed to disappear from his lungs entirely, no whoosh or press necessary. 

Deaton’s eyes were hollow sockets set back in his head, his usually tidy clothes hanging in wrinkles off his frame, and Stiles might have been imagined it, but it looked like his face was thinner already. He looked as bad as John and Stiles had looked years ago.

“Stiles,” he acknowledged as he passed. 

Stiles watched as he climbed the stairs, each step seeming to cost him more than the last, as if he were literally carrying the weight of Boyd’s discovery on his shoulders. 

“Stiles,” Lydia said, her tone softer than before, “go home. I’m sure Scott’s fine.” 

He looked back to her and shook his head. “I need to find him, just in case.” The walk back across the lobby felt like it took forever, and he nearly ran into the doors again. He was starting to suspect they were malfunctioning. The crisp air hit his lungs like a punch, the hint of campfire smoke wafting on the breeze. He exited the parking lot, turning onto a street that would take him by the library, past the school, and eventually home, which were the only other places he could guess that Scott would be.

The library was closed and deserted, the same sign still hanging in the door, undisturbed. He leaned against the door, cupping his hands around his eyes to see through the darkness. He hoped to see that Scott had for some reason broken in. He sighed heavily; no luck. He stumbled back, tripping over his own foot, and turned back to follow the sidewalk again.

A firework exploded a few blocks down, a shower of red arching out and then raining down. Red like blood. 

Stiles looked away. He wondered if the person who set it off realized the irony. The walk to school felt like it was taking forever, the noises growing as he wound his way nearer to the center of town. The sidewalks and lawns had been swept in preparation for the festival, like anyone was going to notice or care. The music and smells of the festival grew stronger and made his stomach flip flop. 

The field came into view, dozens of people gathered there, tents and lawn chairs scattered around a portable barbeque. A child ran among the adults with a sparkler, darting to the spot that Boyd must have stood when he was discovered. 

The child stopped dead and threw up his arm like he was using magic to throw somebody.

Stiles looked away. The kid probably wanted a big party for himself—he knew he had. It seemed thrilling as a child, to have a party thrown in his honor. He focused on the street, forcing himself to take one step at a time, counting each crack in the sidewalk. His breath rattled with each inhale, but it sounded different, like it didn’t belong to him. He watched his feet; he needed to get out of here. This wasn’t a place that Scott would go. 

The toe of his shoe caught on the uneven pavement, sending him pitching forward. His arms shot out instinctively to break his fall. A hand caught his upper arm, wrenching him to a stop and leaving him hanging at a weird, sideways angle. He stared up at Peter. 

“You like hanging around schools?” he sneered, the words coming out in a rasp. 

Peter lifted a brow at him, and Stiles immediately regretted not putting on the filthiest clothes he could have found; maybe that would have repelled him a little. He lifted him back to his feet and dropped his hand. 

Stiles stepped away and tried not to make it seem like a prey animal shying away from a predator. He took a deep breath, regaining his footing both hypothetically and literally, and glared at him. “What do you want?” Stiles snapped when Peter didn’t respond to the first question.

He didn’t respond to the second either. His brow remained arched, silently judging him. 

Stiles mimicked the expression, forcibly ignoring the distant crowd. 

“Are you going to tell anyone?” he asked. He didn’t move, but Stiles suddenly felt as if he was being cornered, which was ridiculous. They were in an open area and there was nothing at Stiles’s back, not to mention about three feet between them. 

“Tell anyone _what_?” Stiles crossed his arms. “That you like to hang around schools watching the teenagers? No one will be that surprised, trust me.” 

Peter’s expression twisted into a grimace. 

“Oh,” Stiles exclaimed in mock-enlightenment. “You mean our conversation about the Argents.” 

Peter’s eyes flashed gold in warning. 

Stiles didn’t care. “Don’t worry, no one will believe _that_ shit even if I did believe you two lunatics.” 

Peter’s lip curled, revealing teeth gone sharp on the ends. “We were trying to help.”

Stiles laughed, arms falling to his sides. “That’s hilarious,” he gasped, clutching his chest only half-jokingly. Hysteria combined with breathing trouble was a good way to knock himself out. 

This time Peter growled, a low threat noise that cut Stiles’s laughter off in his throat, forcing him to focus on evening out his breath. Peter’s brow furrowed, eyes skimming over Stiles, head tilted as if he was listening to something. “Why are you out here if you’re so upset by festivals?”

Stiles bristled; freaked as he was, he rallied with the best of them. “Fuck off.” He stepped forward and around Peter, shoulders stiff and pulled up.

Peter let him get a few steps ahead before he caught up and fell in step beside him. 

Stiles saw him look at him a few times, each time infuriating him more than the last. As they passed the field, Stiles stopped dead in his tracks, quietly pleased when Peter didn’t realize he’d stopped until a few steps later. “Where’s Scott?” Stiles demanded as Peter turned to face him.

“Pardon?” Peter blinked. 

Stiles smiled, feeling particularly pleased with his luck at catching him off guard twice, back to back. “You said you were trying to help, so help. Where’s Scott?” He put his hands on his hips.

Peter had used his freaky wolf senses to figure out Stiles’s discomfort, he could probably figure out where Scott had gone. “At your house,” Peter said slowly, as if he was trying to figure out the trick behind the question. “Do I pass your test?”

Stiles hesitated, caught off guard. “You can smell my _house_ from here?” he asked, mildly horrified. 

Peter said, patiently, “No. I stopped by your house first, looking for you.” 

Stiles’s shoulders sagged in relief. Scott was okay. They must have just missed each other, then. That was good news, even coming from a dog. “Thanks,” he said, slightly surprised to hear how sincere the word sounded. He hoped Peter would leave him alone now, let him finish the walk home on his own. He was disappointed. He groaned as Peter caught up; he quickened his pace slightly, but it was nothing to Peter to adjust his own gait and keep up.

“Please, just leave me alone.” Stiles didn’t want to say he whined, but it was pretty much a whine. He didn’t turn to look at him. 

“I promised I would keep an eye on you.” Peter shrugged, stuffing his hands in his pockets. 

This time, Stiles did look at him. The short sleeved v-neck Peter wore was hardly protection against the cold, but then, he probably didn’t even feel it. 

“Tell Jordan that I have a father who keeps tabs on me just fine,” Stiles said, tugging his hoodie sleeves down over his hands. 

Peter cast him a long glance. “Sure, I can do that. What do you suggest I tell Kate then?”

Stiles stumbled to a halt, jaw hanging open, incomprehensible terror reaching up to close his throat so no sound escaped. 

“Perhaps I thought wrong, but I assumed you’d prefer me to Deucalion.” Peter shrugged. “I can let him tail you instead. He prefers to watch from a distance than approach, of course.” 

“Why?” Stiles demanded, heart hammering as he finally found his voice. “What did I do?” He stomped ahead; he needed to get home. No point in standing around arguing.

Peter simply followed him again. 

His heart clenched painfully; there was no way Deucalion could know about him. He’d just raid the house or grab him from work if there was any actual evidence against him. The Argents didn’t mess around with sparks. 

Peter hummed. “Apparently you and Scott have made multiple trips to the preserve and always ditched the jeep by the nemeton.” 

“Hiking isn’t a crime,” Stiles grumbled, his heart jumping. _Avoid lying_ , he reminded himself. Broad truths were the way to go here. They crossed the main street in tandem; Stiles was acutely aware of how closely Peter was paying attention. 

“No, it isn’t,” Peter said, “but it is suspicious when there’s no scent trail to follow.” 

Stiles chuckled. “Then your noses are broken, because we were right beneath them.” Another confused look. Stiles: 3, Peter: 0. Well, maybe Peter: .5; he’d earned half a point for telling him where Scott was so he didn’t have to walk all over town looking for him. 

Peter’s brows pulled together, smoothed out, and then together again as he heard and processed the truth of the words. 

Stiles beamed at him, waiting for a reply.

“No,” Peter said finally, “you weren’t. I would have scented or heard you.” He looked like a rug had been yanked from under him. “How?” His eyes were focused on the distant trees as he walked himself through the memory, speaking more to himself than to Stiles. He pressed his lips together in a tight frown, focusing back on Stiles. 

“Great,” Stiles spat. “Now I’m on their damn watch list.” 

“You both are,” Peter said distantly. 

Stiles’s heart sank. Scott was innocent, had nothing to do with this, and should be left alone. He bared his teeth. “You’re watching both of us,” he said through his clenched jaw. 

Peter seemed too distracted to notice his increased anxiety. “Nope, just you.”

Stiles relaxed, nearly closing his eyes in relief. 

“Deucalion’s watching Scott.”

“ _What?_ ” Stiles yelped, looking around and expecting to see Deucalion watching from the shadows of one of the houses. 

“Where were you?” Peter asked, looking deeply irritated.

Stiles scowled at him. “I told you. Or is your hearing as messed up as your sense of smell?” 

As they neared the driveway of the Stilinski-and-McCall home, Peter hesitated. 

Stiles continued up the walk. When he looked back, Peter was gone. “Freak,” he muttered, letting himself back into the house. 

“Dude, where were you!” Scott yelled, jumping up off the couch. He darted across the room, yanking Stiles into a hug. 

“Where was _I_? Where were _you!_ ” Stiles yelled back. “You never came home!”

“I did,” Scott argued, releasing him. “I went to the hospital and they said keep the inhaler I have for now, they’ll let Mom know when the new shipment comes in-”

That reminded Stiles. “Why did you say they were contaminated?” he demanded, shoving Scott a little.

“What?”

“Lydia said the inhalers just didn’t have the right amount of medicine in them. That is _not_ what contaminated means! Contaminated means you are inhaling something you should _not be inhaling!_ ” 

“I don’t know, contaminated sounded like the right word,” he said innocently, and then, well, Stiles had to pummel him with a pillow. 

“Don’t-” _whack_ \- “use-” _whack_ \- “words-” _whack_ \- “you don’t know! You scared me! I thought you were going to get sick!” 

Scott, laughing, held his hands up in surrender, tripping backward onto the couch as Stiles hit him one last time with the pillow. 

“Where were you?” Stiles asked, flopping on the couch beside him. “You said you’d be back by ten!”

“I would have, but when I was coming home, Jordan stopped me.” He shrugged. “He was asking me weird questions about the nemeton. I think he suspects—you.” He stopped himself short of saying the word.

Stiles let out a low sigh, glancing toward the windows and out into the yard. “We’re on the Argents’ watch list,” he breathed. 

Scott blinked at him in shock. “ _What?!_ ” 

“Peter’s been assigned to watch me, and Deucalion is supposed to watch you.” Stiles kept his voice low, hopefully low enough that if they were currently being watched, they wouldn’t hear. “I ran into Peter.”

“This isn’t good,” Scott whispered. “What happens when you…” he trailed off but Stiles understood. What happens when the magic builds up and he needed to use it?

“I don’t think we can go to the—hiking again,” he said, focusing on the coffee table. “That’s what made the Argents…suspicious.” 

Scott nodded slowly. “Okay.” 

They lapsed into tense silence, every now and then looking up at the window. After a few minutes, Scott got up and went to the kitchen to reheat whatever leftovers had survived the week. While he was puttering around, Melissa emerged from her room. She packed her lunch, kissed them both good bye, and left in her usual routine as John pulled up, thankfully alone. Stiles let out an uneasy breath; he didn’t know if he’d be able to handle having Jordan over again, especially not after the revelations.

Music from the festival grew steadily louder until the walls of the house seemed to beat in time with it. Fireworks exploded above them and loud cheers echoed through the street. Stiles knew it was going to be a very, very long week. 

 

Over the next few days, only Melissa and John left the house. The smoke from the fireworks, barbecues, and fire pits permeated the house, working its way into every surface until it seemed like the scent would never leave. Scott chattered whenever they were awake in an attempt to distract Stiles, but inevitably turned on Disney movies, as was their typical go-to. 

At some point on the second day, while John was at work and Melissa was asleep, a shadow darted across the living room, cast from someone moving through their backyard. 

Scott motioned for Stiles to stay where he was on the floor with a book, but Stiles just rolled his eyes and shoved himself to his feet, ambling to the door.

Near the trees pushing up against the far end of the yard stood Peter, watching the house intently. His arms were tightly crossed, making his biceps bulge almost threateningly against the short sleeves of his shirt. 

“Creep,” Stiles said, drawing the curtains closed.

 

He checked the yard again before he went to sleep, this time from his bedroom window. 

Deucalion’s red-glowing eyes bore into his from the dark recesses of the yard. 

His heart jumped in surprise, but he pulled the blinds down. 

“Again?” Scott whispered, watching Stiles through the darkness. 

“Deucalion now.” Stiles climbed under the blankets, forcing himself to relax. They hadn’t done anything wrong, and they had no reason to try to take them. 

 

On the third day, Stiles saluted Deucalion through the bedroom window before going to brush his teeth. His heart felt like it was going to pound out of his chest from anxiety, but he forced a smile around noon and waved sarcastically to Peter, announcing the “shift change” to Scott. 

“Why do you keep checking?” Scott asked, hovering by the table as Stiles cleaned up lunch. 

They were both on edge, unable to shake the constant feeling of being watched. Stiles gave a one-shouldered shrug. Possibly he checked because he thought it was fucking creepy. Or because it terrified him that they could smell his magic if he needed to use it. Hell, maybe it was just to mock them through the window, letting them know that they could watch all they wanted, but they were just wasting their time. He wasn’t sure himself—it was probably all of those reasons. 

He winked and blew Deucalion a kiss that night, dropping the blinds before he could see his response. He laid down, but he was so tense that his whole body hurt. He laid in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the party going on outside, when Scott’s breath began to rattle. He sat up, swinging his legs off the bed and facing Scott. 

“I’m okay,” Scott wheezed, grabbing the inhaler off the nightstand. He put it in his mouth, breathing in the two puffs, then a third, and a fourth. 

Stiles watched him in concern until he put the inhaler back down, breathing more normally. “I’m okay,” he said again, smiling convincingly. 

On day four, Peter sat on the railing of the back porch, smiling at Stiles when he opened the curtains and promptly shut them. 

Peter laughed. “No kiss for me then?” he called. 

Scott stopped on the stairs, tilting his head in confusion.

“You’re taken. I don’t think Jordan would approve.” Stiles didn’t bother to raise his voice.

His suspicions about Peter’s senses were proven correct when Peter stopped laughing and made a sound like “probably not”. 

Stiles turned to Scott, hands shaking at his sides. He couldn’t handle this anymore; his house was his safe place, away from the festival, the Argents, and wolves, and now he didn’t even have that. Angry tears pricked at the corners of his eyes. “I’m going to _shoot them,_ ” he breathed, sinking down on the bottom step. “I’m going to get my dad’s gun and shoot them.” 

Scott sat down on the step above his. “Unfortunately that won’t work, not unless you get a perfect shot in the perfect spot.”

“I need out of the house, Scotty,” Stiles said, resting his forehead on his knees. “It feels like a prison here.” 

“Are you sure you want to go out?” Scott asked.

“Even if it’s just for an hour,” Stiles mumbled. “As long as they aren’t sitting on our property watching us.”

“Alright. I’m going with you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there! It seems like a lot of people are confused. As a writer, I'd like to improve my writing and if this many people are confused about something, that means something isn't right. If you'd like, you can ask my beta questions [here](http://outtoshatter.tumblr.com/) and we can see if we can clarify things. I'm not sure what is confusing everyone and I can't fix it otherwise! Let us know and we can see what can be fixed! Thanks!


	9. Chapter 9

The time a festival lasted usually depended on what day of the week it began and lasted through the rest of the same week, with the following Monday a recovery day. This was day five, and Stiles was frankly sickened at how many people were still out celebrating. 

Stiles glanced behind them, relaxing when he didn’t see Deucalion or Peter. The smoke in the air had thinned to a light haze instead of the thick fog. Stiles kept glancing at Scott as they walked, mindful of his breathing. The tightness in his own chest loosened ever-so-slightly the further away from the house they got. 

“This sucks,” Stiles complained, kicking at the loose concrete. “Chased away from our own house.” He chewed on the inside of his cheek. 

“Don’t think of it as being chased away,” Scott said, his voice only slightly raspy. He patted at the backpack when Stiles turned to him, indicating where the inhaler was stored. “Think of it as self-preservation.” 

Stiles lifted a single brow at him. 

Scott continued, “The Argents wouldn’t let you live if you shot their dogs.”

Stiles’s lips twitched up in a humorless smile. “I don’t think the dogs would take too kindly to being shot to begin with.” 

“Probably not,” Scott agreed. 

They walked out onto the main street shoulder-to-shoulder. Food carts lined either side, but it looked like only half or so were even open yet. Even further down the street a few of the lowerclassmen from their school had dug out their instruments and were playing one of the songs they usually did at football games. Vague stirrings of memory, music from his mom’s festival, rose in his consciousness and made him flinch. 

“You doing okay?” Scott knocked their shoulders together playfully. 

Stiles ground his teeth together and nodded. “Fine.”

They passed several conventional games—ring toss, balloon darts, knock-over-the-bottle, free throw. A fortune telling booth had a sign reading: ‘ **Get your future told by a true spark!** ’ 

Stiles hissed between his teeth, digging his fingers into Scott’s sleeve and dragging him along. “I hate these people,” he muttered, glaring at everyone they passed. “Celebrating Boyd’s…” _death._ He couldn’t say it. His mouth twisted in disgust instead. 

“You want to go home?” Scott wheezed, half pulling the backpack around in front of him like he was about to grab his inhaler. 

“—then he just raised his hand and _threw_ me.” Jackson’s voice carried down the street, lifted with the thrill of having an audience. 

Scott and Stiles looked up to see him surrounded by most of the lacrosse team.

Jackson held his hand out to demonstrate. He had a large bruise down the side of his face and one arm in a sling. 

“Jackson!” Stiles exploded, like the name itself was a curse. He patted Scott absently on the arm. “Yeah, let’s go back.” 

Scott was starting to sound worse from the smoke and chancing the inhaler wasn’t an option. 

Stiles stopped him as he was turning, reaching deftly into the bag and pulling the inhaler out. “Just in case,” he said, pressing it into Scott’s palm.

“McCall! Stilinski!” 

Stiles closed his eyes, leaning into Scott for a moment to re-zip the bag and ignore Jackson. 

The band put their instruments down. 

Stiles steeled himself and turned to look at Jackson. 

He and his posse were crossing the street, making their way straight toward them. Jackson’s shoulders were pulled back, eyes narrowed. 

“Ditched two. Baboons. To run into a third,” Scott rasped, tightening his grip on his inhaler.

Stiles choked back a laugh, his grip flexing on Scott’s arm. He turned his head as alarm tickled the back of his brain, but then Jackson spoke, distracting him from Scott.

“Did you hear about Boyd?” he sneered, stopping a few feet away. “Of course you haven’t, you never leave your house.” He rolled his eyes and smirked when his comrades snickered. 

Stiles glared, half hoping Jackson would burst into flame from the force of his gaze. No luck. “I’ve heard,” Stiles said, watching the other lacrosse players spread out in a wide circle, trapping him and Scott in the middle. What, did these guys choreograph or something? Is that what Coach had them doing between practices?

“I’m surprised you haven’t faked being a spark by now,” Jackson said, ignoring Stiles as he tensed, hands balling into fists. “Are you jealous? Boyd will get to see your mom and you-” Jackson grunted, hands flying up to cover his nose and mouth, blood gushing from both.

Scott blinked at Stiles in shock for a moment, his face pale and a little sweaty.

Stiles shook his hand, backing away before Jackson had fully recovered. He might be able to get a hit in when Jackson was distracted, but he was bigger than Stiles, and in a one-on-one fight, Stiles didn’t see a favorable ending for himself. 

They had taken a few steps when a hand closed around the handle of the backpack, jerking Scott to a hard stop, making him wobble. Stiles spun around, punching one of the other players in the jaw. 

By that point, Jackson had recovered, though he had blood running down his chin from his nose. The kid shoved Scott toward Jackson, who threw him aside, advancing on Stiles with a snarl on his mouth. 

Scott threw his hands out to catch himself, smashing the plastic part of the inhaler between his palm and the road. The metal bit shot off somewhere.

Stiles had a moment to be pissed and upset about that before Jackson’s fist swung at his head. He ducked and darted forward, ramming his shoulder into Jackson’s stomach. They both hit the ground; Jackson grunted, winded when he landed on his back. He twisted so he was on top, pinning Stiles’s hands by his sides with his knees. 

Stiles wiggled and twisted, bucking in an attempt to roll Jackson off of him, but he held fast. 

The others pulled in a tighter circle around them to block the view of bystanders, not that any were making a move to stop the fight. Jackson’s weight dropped down on Stiles’s stomach, stealing his breath away. A fist cracked against his cheek, whipping his head hard to the right. Heat spread from the corner of his eye as it started to swell. That was going to be interesting to explain to his dad. 

Jackson was blathering about how _dare_ he hit him, blah, blah. 

Stiles realized that, 1, Jackson was nearly sitting on his chest, leaving his legs free, and, 2, he was about to get hit again and the only way to keep his nose exactly where it was would be to get free in any way he could manage. Desperate, he hitched his hips up and swung his legs wildly until his ankles could cross around Jackson’s neck, yanking him off balance as he dropped his hips back to the asphalt. He scrambled to his feet, just barely avoiding a kick to the stomach from one of the others. 

Below the sound of jeering and his own panting breaths, Stiles heard a sound that made his heart jump in panic: low, uneven rasping. 

Jackson wiped blood and sweat off his face, shaking off one of the kids that tried to help him up.

Stiles twisted around. “Scott,” he gasped, looking around for him. He only saw the wall of lacrosse players. He side stepped, trying to get around the idiots blocking him, but the bigger one just matched him step for step. Stiles shoved him just as hands grabbed him by the shoulders, spinning him around. Before he could readjust to facing _this_ direction suddenly and against his will, a fist popped him right in the mouth, splitting his lip inside and out as his teeth cut into the fragile skin.

“Hey!” someone yelled beyond the group.

Stiles grabbed a fist full of hair, slamming Jackson’s face down as he brought his knee up; they met in the middle, his thigh throbbing as it came in contact with the side of Jackson’s hard head. 

“Break it up!” a familiar voice yelled. 

Stiles dimly realized the lacrosse idiots were scattering. The voice didn’t belong to John or Melissa, so Stiles didn’t stop, tearing at Jackson with teeth and nails until Jackson was forced to stumble back a step. Stiles turned around, taking the opportunity to look for Scott. 

He was still on the ground, curled up like a shrimp. As Stiles watched, he sat up, wheezing hard. The broken inhaler lay in pieces beside him, smeared with red from where the plastic cut into his palm. His face was still pale, alarmingly pale, breathing hard and loud.

Stiles’s heart slammed hard against his chest, tripling in pace from panic. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jackson preparing to hit him again. 

Jordan caught Jackson’s arm on the fly, wrenching it behind his back until Jackson fell to his knees. 

“Scott,” Stiles gasped, running to Scott’s side. He scrabbled uselessly at the broken pieces of the inhaler, but it was busted beyond repair. 

Scott wheezed, shaking his head. His lips twitched at the corners, a bare hint of a smile. “Bus. Ted.” He shrugged his shoulders, but they didn’t come back down. 

Stiles dropped the pieces and pressed his hands to Scott’s chest. “Slower,” he instructed firmly, straightening Scott’s shoulders by force. “Slow, deep.” He urged Scott to sit up, give his lungs more room. 

Scott did as instructed, trying to take a deep breath; it wheezed on the way in and on the way back out, his face paling further. His lips were turning blue as Stiles watched, a bead of sweat tracking down his cheek. 

Stiles was breathing heavily, too, shuddering as fear raced through him. “Scott, Scott, you have to take slow breaths okay.” He didn’t even know what he was saying anymore, patting Scott’s face and shoulders and chest. 

Scott nodded, taking a slow breath.

The absence of wheezing made Stiles feel cold all over. He put his palms over Scott’s chest, damning the consequences. Hopefully Jordan wouldn’t tell, but if he did, it would be worth Scott’s life. Stiles inhaled, pulling air into his own lungs, imagining the magic inside him stretching out, flexing. He breathed out, pushing the magic and air out through his palms. His whole body shook as he felt Scott’s lungs expand and contract under his palms, almost not accepting the air Stiles was offering. He shut his eyes. 

Jackson was yelling something.

The sigil tingled, responding readily as he tried again; Scott gripped his wrists so tightly it hurt, bone grinding against bone. He understood the warning, but this was more important. Stiles pushed air into Scott’s lungs again, brow furrowed in concentration. This time, his chest expanded with the breath, his whole body shivering with it.

He took in another shaky, raspy gasp of air. 

Stiles yanked him into a hug, patting him down with trembling hands. “You’re alright,” he whispered. “You’re okay, you’ll be okay.” He was repeating it as much for his benefit as for Scott’s. The effect of the magic was already hitting him, his vision swaying from sudden exhaustion. His stomach clenched with hunger. 

The radio at Jordan’s hip crackled, causing Stiles to open his eyes and turn his head toward him.

“Sheriff? Do you copy, Sheriff?” Jordan practically sat on top of Jackson, but his eyes were locked on Stiles, his expression unreadable. The radio crackled again, the magic making a solid connection impossible. “I need you at the high school on 30th street ASAP,” Jordan said, probably hoping John could still hear him.

Stiles sure hoped he could; he just wanted to be home, in bed. 

“Stiles, we gotta go,” Scott said in his normal, non-dying voice. He hauled them both to their feet, slinging Stiles’s arm across his shoulders. 

Jordan looked between them with open shock, but he didn’t move to stop them. 

Stiles had managed to take all of three steps when Deucalion rounded the corner of the building across the street, a sinister smile twisting across his face. 

He closed the distance between them, blocking their path. Behind them, Jordan made a small, distressed noise in the back of his throat, making Deucalion chuckle. His nostrils flared as he scented the air. “Like mother, like son,” Deucalion purred, eyes flashing red when Scott stepped in front of Stiles. “Though I don’t recall that spell being the one she demonstrated.” 

Stiles was going to vomit. He tried to tug Scott back so they were side-by-side, but Scott didn’t budge. Stiles had created a monster. 

“Leave us alone,” Scott said, far braver than Stiles felt. “Jackson was the one causing problems.” 

“I’m sure he was.” Deucalion sauntered toward them, a predator circling prey he knew had nowhere to run. “Don’t move!” His head snapped to Jordan. 

Stiles chanced a glance behind him; Jordan had half-risen, his injured ankle stuck awkwardly out to the side. 

Scott jerked forward, dragging Stiles with him while Deucalion was distracted. He should’ve known that wasn’t going to work, Stiles reflected dully, but it was a valiant attempt that got them two and a half steps closer to freedom. 

Stiles never even saw Deucalion move; a clawed hand ripped him free of Scott’s hold, throwing him like a ragdoll. He hit the ground painfully a few feet away, landing on his side.

Jordan was beside him in an instant, putting a hand on his side to check for injuries. 

The air itself seemed to shake and tremble in the wake of Deucalion’s roar. 

Jackson fled.

Scott roared back, “You can’t take him!” 

Stiles struggled to sit up, reaching out a hand like that was going to help. 

Deucalion lunged at Scott, claws raking down his chest, cutting through fabric and skin like wet paper. 

“ _No!_ ” Stiles yelled, lurching to his feet. 

Scott fell backwards, clinging to the front of Deucalion’s shirt. 

Deucalion snarled and snapped forward like a snake, clamping his jaws around Scott’s collarbone; Scott screamed, back arching as he struggled to free himself. 

Stiles stumbled forward, dodging Jordan’s hands as he tried to grab and hold him back. 

Scott crumpled to a heap, whimpering, when Deucalion unlatched his jaw. 

Magic sizzled under Stiles’s skin, his hand still lifted as he reached for Scott. 

Deucalion lifted a clawed hand, ready to kill Scott for his daring to challenge an alpha. 

Stiles trembled, imagining his hand curling around Deucalion’s lungs. The magic in him reacted, and so did Deucalion.

He paused, seeming to sense—or smell—what Stiles was doing. 

Stiles yanked his fist back, dragging all of the air in Deucalion’s lungs with it. 

Deucalion bent double, completely winded, face contorted with rage. Sweat beaded his forehead. 

Stiles had never seen a werewolf panting or sweating, or showing any signs of weakness at all, for that matter. His head spun, fuzzy and confused, slowly processing what was going on around him and realizing with sudden clarity how much shit he and Scott were actually in. A slap-happy laugh bubbled out of his chest, sputtering past his lips with a shriek of hysterical mirth. A blur passed him on the right, slamming forcefully into Deucalion. 

“You can’t kill the spark,” Peter snarled. 

Deucalion growled back, but he didn’t press past him.

Peter stood between them until Deucalion had composed himself, still breathing hard through the snarl twisting his features. 

Stiles couldn’t look away from Scott, couldn’t stop seeing all the blood all over his clothes and spreading on the asphalt.

Tires squealed on the pavement, signaling the arrival of yet another spectator. 

Stiles bent forward, dropping his hands to his knees as he struggled to breathe. He was _so_ screwed. 

“Stiles,” John gasped. The cruiser door slammed shut, but he didn’t run to him, apparently frozen in horror. 

Tears prickled at Stiles’s eyes, blurring his vision further. He swayed, turning his head so he could see John. 

His eyes were wide in terror; he kept shaking his head like that might dispel the scene in front of him, a reenactment of the scene years ago. “No, Stiles, no,” he said very softly, stepping forward. 

Deucalion flashed his eyes in warning, fangs scraping his lip, and John redirected his attention to the body still on the ground.

“Scott,” he gasped, dropping to his knees instantly, hands flying to the wounds to apply pressure.

“Come on.” Peter stepped up to Stiles, placing a hand on his shoulder. “It’s time to go.” His tone was soft, a façade, acting like the apologetic captor. 

Stiles wanted to struggle, to fight and run to Scott. He wanted to go home. 

Deucalion’s angry growling grew louder. 

“Stay there, John,” Peter said, still somehow calm. “You know the law. It’s not worth it.”

John’s right hand snapped his gun out of its holster, leveling it at Peter’s chest while using his other hand to press into Scott’s wounds. “Don’t you tell me what’s worth it or not,” he said in a low, dangerous voice. “This is my son. I don’t care about-”

“Dad,” Stiles said quietly. “Please.” 

Peter didn’t react to the gun pointed at him, didn’t even blink. “Sheriff.” 

John’s jaw flexed, but when Scott whimpered and he dropped his gaze slightly, Stiles knew he’d relent. He re-holstered his gun and looked down at Scott.

Stiles’s lip trembled. Scott was really hurt, and now he wouldn’t even get to know if he was okay. “Dad, just—just take care of Scott, okay? I’ll be fine.” Lie, lie, and John knew it. 

Jordan shuffled to John’s side, handing over his jacket to add to the makeshift bandage. 

Peter gently pushed on Stiles’s shoulder, leading him away. 

Stiles took one successful step before his legs gave out, the world tunneling around him. 

Jordan said something about getting Scott to the hospital, and Stiles felt his brain finally give up the fight; everything went black. Peter’s arms catching him from hitting the ground were the last thing he was aware of.


	10. Chapter 10

The first thing Stiles understood upon waking was that he was in a spring bed that was not his own, his face pressed into a musty smelling pillow, also _not his own._ His eyelids felt like a ton of bricks as he pried them open, memories rushing back to him. His first impression of the room he was in was grey: the walls, the floor, the bedding. 

“You’re awake.” 

Stiles jumped, launching himself off the bed and straight to his unsteady feet. 

Boyd sat on the floor next to a door-less nook that might’ve once been a closet. 

“Boyd?” Stiles choked, sinking back onto the edge of the bed. 

Boyd lifted a dark eyebrow, waiting for Stiles to continue. 

Stiles stared back, his gaze following the sharp zig-zagged sigil trailing down Boyd’s neck. He swallowed uneasily, gaze flicking to a barred window near the ceiling, then to the door. 

“It’s locked,” Boyd supplied, stretching his legs. “I tried both.”

Stiles nodded; that seemed like a logical thing to do after being taken. “How long-” his voice cracked. He cleared his throat and started again. “How long until the Argents come down here?”

“Typically Chris will come down once a day, drop off food and water.” Boyd pressed his lips together, staring holes in the door. “I don’t know when Deucalion will come down, or if we’ll be brought to him.”

Stiles would have marveled at the sight of Boyd bothering to break up his monosyllabic demeanor, but given the circumstances, he figured it was to be expected. He propped his elbows on his knees, resting his head in his hands. He needed to get out. Scott was hurt, who knew how badly, and his dad needed him. He couldn’t be all alone. Sure, he had Melissa and Scott, but—but what about Scott? What if Scott _died_? There was a lot of blood…

“How many spells do you know?”

Stiles lifted his head.

Boyd stared at him expectantly. 

“One,” he replied, uncertain. The dogs only dragged you off if you knew one, obviously. If you didn’t know any, they didn’t have a reason to grab you. 

“Anything that could help us?”

“I winded Deucalion, which I think just pissed him off.” Stiles rubbed the side of his head, wincing when he touched the bruises. “But unless you’re having an asthma attack, I don’t think that’s going to help you much.” He sighed. “What about you?” he asked slowly, frowning.

Boyd looked disappointed. “I’m trying to modify one.” He tapped the sigil on his neck. “Could be useful.”

“One?” Stiles asked, sitting up straighter. “How many sigils do you have?”

“Three.” 

Stiles gaped at him. How the hell did he manage to hide _three_ sigils? “How did you…handle that?” he asked, thinking about all the times his own magic had built up to the point of having to release it or risk exposure. He couldn’t imagine that pent-up feeling three-fold. 

“You get used to it.” Boyd shrugged. “D…ad says magic is like a muscle: the more you use it, the easier it is to control. Less side effects after each use, too.” He looked at Stiles’s torso when his stomach grumbled.

“Deaton knows you have magic?” Once the question was out, he realized how silly that question was. _His_ dad knew he had magic. Why wouldn’t Boyd’s? He waved his hand like he could physically erase the question. “Where are your other sigils?” he asked instead. 

Boyd’s t-shirt revealed most of his arms, which were bare, and his jeans covered his legs. “One on my stomach, the other on my shoulder. Easy places to hide.” He jerked his head at Stiles. “You?”

Stiles blinked at the unfairness of that. Such normal places. “Uh, my left ass cheek,” he mumbled, face flushing. 

Boyd stared at him, a smile twitching at his lips when Stiles didn’t say he was kidding. “I suppose it could be worse,” he mused. 

Stiles chuckled dryly. “Can they hear us in here?”

“I think Deucalion or Peter could, if they’re here. There aren’t any microphones or cameras set up in here.” He let his head fall back against the wall. 

Stiles figured he was done talking, so he sat in silence, too, his skin prickling. This was not where he wanted to be and, frankly, it was a damn inconvenience. He jerked to his feet, pacing the length of the room and back again. He trailed a hand along the door, pushing gently with his fingertips, then firmer, slamming air into it. It rattled but didn’t open.

“If you use big bursts of magic, you’ll just tire yourself,” Boyd said, watching him with half-lidded eyes, apparently resigned to his fate. 

“What’s the difference between being energized before death and being exhausted? If I’m exhausted, at least I know I’ve tried,” Stiles snapped, resuming his pacing. 

“Look,” Boyd said slowly, “I’m just trying to help. I’ve hidden my magic by using it, a lot, in public places. The way I did that was to _barely_ use it, that way it didn’t leave a scent or tire me out, with the bonus of letting it out, so it didn’t build up in my system and make me go crazy.” 

Stiles spun around when he reached the wall, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “How is that going to help me now? Help _us_ now?” 

“If you _just_ came into it, magic can be tempting to use, and I wouldn’t expect a new spark to understand much about it yet. I’m trying to teach you.” His tone suggested he regretted that decision.

Stiles froze mid-step, turning his head slowly to look at him. He _laughed_ , the sound so absurd in this damp, dark place that it made him laugh even louder. “ _New_ spark?” he asked, laughter growing frenzied. 

Boyd looked uncomfortable, like he realized his assumption was off. 

“New!” Stiles stared at him for a moment, swaying in place. It was possible he was still a bit…off from the magic he’d used earlier. “I may not have known how to,” he waved his hands, “use it in small doses, or whatever you did, but I’ve been hiding this shit for eight years!” 

Boyd’s eyes went round in surprise. 

Stiles continued, a definite note of hysteria in his slowly-rising voice, “Using it in the dead of night, freaking out when I’ve been in public, dousing myself with air fresheners. I’ve found ways to live with it.” He nodded firmly, his head bouncing up and down like an out of control bobble head. “I have. I don’t _need_ your help now. We are screwed. We don’t need to hide it _now_!” He stomped to the bed, huffed furiously, turned back and strode in the other direction. His jaw started aching from him clenching it, and he now realized he could hardly see out of his swollen eye. His battered body ached from its earlier beating and from the laps he was doing now. He knew, objectively, that he should stop, let himself rest. Objectivity didn’t really help him here.

“I was fourteen,” Boyd said, drawing Stiles’s attention. “It showed up before Deaton adopted me, but I wasn’t sure how I’d cast the spell, so it was basically worthless at the time.” He tapped a finger on his stomach absentmindedly. “A year later, one of the patients, Harris, was being an ass to Deaton—to Dad,” he clarified, though Stiles didn’t understand why, “and I felt this surge of magic when he passed. I brushed against his shoulder and cursed him. That’s when I actually learned how to use it.” 

Stiles stopped pacing. “Curse?”

Boyd nodded. “Things started going wrong for him. The printer at school sprayed him with ink. The only car on the road ran over his foot. It got progressively worse until Jennifer Blake got so mad at him last year that she started trying to actually kill him. Dad made me take the curse off a few days ago. He said four years was long enough,” he added with an eye roll. 

Stiles flopped backwards onto the bed, glaring at the door. “Think you can curse the Argents and their dogs? One last hurrah?”

“Don’t think I haven’t dreamed about it. The only one I’ve managed so far is Deputy Parrish.”

Stiles sat up, mouth falling open. “ _What?_ ” 

Boyd leveled him with a look. “No one willingly comes to Beacon Hills. I regret not cursing Peter when I had the chance. Parrish just made it easy by sitting by me on the bus.” 

Stiles blinked, mouth rounding. “That…makes a surprising amount of sense, actually.” He stood back up and paced toward the door, trying to open it again as if something would have changed in the last six minutes. It still didn’t open. 

“The hospital smell overpowers the scent of magic, not that you’d find a werewolf in there to begin with.” 

“What’s your last sigil?” Stiles looked up at the window. If he stood on the bed, he would be able to reach it.

“I can shock people.”

Stiles pursed his lips. “So do I, that’s not exactly magic.”

Boyd’s expression said exactly where he thought Stiles could shove his would-be witty banter. He held up his hand, fingers splayed, a thin line of electricity sparking between the tips, crackling like a Taser. 

“Oh, that kind of shock,” Stiles observed. He braced one hand on the wall as he stepped onto the bed. His shoulder and back protested when he reached up to test the bars over the glass. Just like the door, they were unmoved and unimpressed with his attempts. From his vantage point on the bed, he could see grass and the dim glow of moonlight. “How long have I been here?” he asked, frowning. He stepped down off the bed, wobbling slightly. 

“Several hours?” Boyd guessed. “Chris hasn’t brought food by since it’s not morning yet, but if pattern holds, he will.” He looked at the bed.

The _only_ bed, Stiles realized with frustration. They couldn’t have spared _two_ shitty mattresses for their prisoners?

“You can keep pacing if you have the energy, but I’m tired.”

Stiles motioned toward the bed. “Don’t let me stop you.” 

Boyd stood stiffly, stretching his arms above his head before shuffling to the bed. He eyed it with distaste before climbing on, laying on his side. It seemed like only a matter of minutes until his breathing evened out with sleep.

Stiles found that to be an incredibly irritating trait in a roommate, and began doing laps again. He flexed his hands at his sides until his fingers began to cramp in protest, and finally gave up, sinking to the floor in the spot Boyd had vacated. He looked down at his hands, absently counting his fingers. They needed a plan. 

If Chris reliably brought them food, maybe they could time it and overpower him, get through the door and get the hell out. Two against one were better odds than he could have hoped for. They’d have to get out of the mansion, of course, which neither of them knew the layout of. Past various Argents, all of whom were likely armed and dangerous. Past Deucalion and Peter, who were _definitely_ armed with fangs, claws, heightened senses, and a taste for spark blood. And then they’d have to get out of Beacon Hills altogether, the last, impossible task in a list of impossible tasks.

Stiles let his head fall back against the wall, licking his lips. It was a…rough…plan. He let out a mirthless laugh. It wasn’t much of a plan at all, really. He shut his eyes. They had to do something; laying down to die just wasn’t an option. At least this way, they’d go down fighting. His skin prickled with awareness, eyes snapping open. 

Boyd was still asleep, facing the door, but Stiles felt like someone was watching him. 

He looked at the door, tensing in place. The door was solid, no peep holes that he could see. He twisted, looking up at the window, but he didn’t see any eyes staring down at him. He couldn’t see out of it properly without climbing on the bed and disturbing Boyd anyway. He shifted around uncomfortably on the floor; it was the same skin-crawling sensation he’d had in the station when Jordan had taken them to meet Peter, and out in the yard when Jordan had claimed to have been on the phone. 

“Peter?” Stiles asked hesitantly, trying to make a connection. The goosebumps and skin-creeping feeling turned into the needle prick tingling of magic. Instead of stopping the magic like he would have done at any prior moment in his life, he let it go. His already tired body slumped against the wall. The magic twirled under his skin in little circles, like a massage, over his hipbones and across his stomach and back, like a belt. The magic pulsed in time with footsteps. His brows furrowed, because those were quite obviously not his own footsteps. The steps were too fast to be human, and growing steadily stronger, closer to the door. His stomach rumbled in hunger but he hardly felt it, now certain that it was Peter coming toward them. The magic thumped so heavily under his skin that he wondered if someone watching him could see him move in time with it. 

“Hi, Peter,” he said, breathless. 

The thumping footsteps stopped on the other side of the door. 

The magic recoiled under his skin slightly in shock. No, Stiles realized, that wasn’t the magic. It was Peter’s shock he was feeling. Stiles laughed, his head lolling down to rest on his shoulder. The magic in his hip burned for a second, just like it had done at the park years ago when Scott had an asthma attack and wasn’t near his inhaler. The laugh died halfway out of his mouth, leaving him wheezing and gasping for air. He dropped a hand to his left hip, feeling the warmth of the new, swirling sigil. 

The lock clicked and the handle turned. 

Boyd sat bolt upright in the bed, blinking rapidly to clear the sleep from his eyes. 

The door opened slowly but steadily, revealing Peter in a dark tank top and tight jeans.

“Those jeans don’t look like they’ll be fun to run in,” Stiles slurred, grinning drunkenly at him. 

Peter regarded him coolly. “They’re not.” 

His gaze swept from Peter’s face to the tray in his hands, plates piled with food balanced between a bucket and a two gallon jug of what looked like water. “You want us to wash the dishes when we’re done?” Stiles guessed, giggling breathlessly at ludicrousness of the idea.

“I’ll just let you figure out what that’s for,” Peter said with distaste, placing the tray on the floor. 

“Where’s Chris?” Boyd asked, swinging his legs off the bed without getting up.

“Gerard and Kate decided that there since there are two of you, I’m in charge of babysitting.”

“Damn, that sucks,” Stiles muttered, snatching a peanut butter and jelly sandwich off the tray. He needed to eat something if he was going to one day kick Peter’s ass for hauling him here. “The human would be easier to sneak past.” He looked at Boyd for confirmation, cheeks bulging with food.

Boyd looked ready to smack him, if the temper lights dancing in his eyes were any indication. 

Stiles turned back to Peter, who was still standing just inside the door. The _open_ door. Stiles let a whiny groan at the idea of trying to rush past him. “Nope,” he said, using his tongue to unglue peanut butter from the roof of his mouth. He grabbed another sandwich while he was still chewing the rest of the last one. He was definitely going to need to reassess his escape plan. 

Peter sighed noisily. “I’ll bring more food by later. Boyd, don’t let Stiles eat all of that, he’ll just make himself sick.” 

Stiles flung up a hand in protest, desperately trying to tell Peter to _fuck right off_ with that bullshit while also saying he knew nothing about how much Stiles could actually eat. What came out were half-formed words muffled by bread and jelly and the smack of his rogue hand against the stone wall.

Peter turned his back on them and left, which Stiles thought was brave. 

Boyd slid to the floor, snagging the other plate off the tray. “He brought more food than Chris did,” he said, just loud enough for Stiles to hear. 

Stiles thought Boyd said something else, but with his stomach filling, his mind had started to relax. He jerked, food halfway to landing in his lap when he realized he’d started dozing. 

The next time he jerked awake, the food was safely on the plate beside him; Boyd must have moved it. Sunlight streamed in the window and he became acutely aware of why he’d woken. The pressure of his bladder was almost painful. He squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them again, looking around for a solution to his most pressing issue. His gaze caught on the bucket; he could almost feel the penny drop. 

Stiles glowered at the door, imagining glaring at the Argents themselves. This was a _house_ , with two werewolves stalking around the property and the city. There was no reason they couldn’t use an actual bathroom. “Bullshit,” he muttered, then, furious about the entire situation, he tilted his head back and shouted, “This is medieval!” at the ceiling. It wasn’t like the Argents could hear him anyway. 

“Did you realize what the bucket is for?” Boyd asked from where he was reclined on the bed. 

“Despite how shitty Beacon Hills is, we at least have working plumbing,” Stiles grumbled. “I’ve peed on trees, shrubs, and once a fire hydrant to see why dogs liked it so much. Never in a damn bucket.” 

“I…did not need to know any of that,” Boyd said. “They are quick to take the bucket out, if that helps, but they don’t consistently bring one back in.”

It took Stiles a few minutes to actually make himself go, even with his back to Boyd. He zipped up quickly and eyed the plate of remaining food, wondering if it was worth it. He looked back at the bucket and wrinkled his nose.

“Just eat it. You’ll need your energy.”

Stiles sat back down, picking up the sandwich and downing it in three bites. 

“You got a new sigil.” It wasn’t a question, but Stiles caught himself nodding, reaching for the jug of remaining water. 

He took a long swig. Boyd was right; if they wanted a chance at escaping, they’d have to be ready. “I could sense Peter coming down here,” he explained, setting the jug down. “Like when your skin crawls because someone’s staring at you, but I knew it was Peter.” 

Boyd watched him stoically. 

“Too bad it couldn’t have happened before now, it could have been useful, you know? Kinda of badass, too. I mean,” Stiles babbled, “you have three, you must be super strong.”

“Not really how sigils work, Stiles.”

Stiles’s head snapped up. “What?”

“The sigils are like umbrella spells.” Boyd clasped his hands in his lap like he was having this conversation in a coffee shop rather than a basement-turned-prison-cell, and he was politely waiting for Stiles to take his turn to speak.

“You have to elaborate,” Stiles said impatiently. “I don’t understand.” He felt a muscle in his jaw twitch; how the hell was Boyd so fucking _calm_? They were locked in a basement like some sort of bad daytime TV drama. 

“Imagine you have a plain rope. The rope is the sigil. You can probably make a basic knot at first, with that rope. That’s the first spell you managed.” He held his hands out in front of his chest, like he was holding the hypothetical rope. “Now think of all the things people who’ve practiced with ropes can do. They know how to take the same rope you have and twist it into other things, more complicated knots. Same rope, different things. The same sigil, more complicated, different magic.” Boyd paused, pointing and flexing his toes to stretch his legs. “My first sigil,” he explained, “allowed me to “curse” people. Upon further exploration, I realized I’m not really _cursing_ them, but influencing the events around them. Just before I was thrown in here, I was experimenting with influencing people. Mainly trying to get Deaton to make the oatmeal raisin cookies he makes around holidays.”

“Can you influence us out of here?” Stiles demanded, sitting up straighter. 

“I told you earlier, I’d have to touch them and they haven’t come close enough,” Boyd said with a bite of impatience. 

“Ah.” Stiles tapped his thumbs on his knees. He thought about the rope analogy and decided it made sense. He’d helped Scott breathe _and_ had winded Deucalion basically by reversing the process he used for Scott. 

“I never got the cookies.”

“Dude.” Stiles tried for a commiserating smile. “That sucks. When we get out, we’ll convince him to make them, no magic needed. We’ll drag Scott with us,” he said, his voice breaking. He continued as if it hadn’t happened, “We’ll make him use those sad puppy dog eyes. No one can resist them.” Scott was still hurt, he remembered. He didn’t even know how badly he was hurt, or if they’d made it to the hospital before he bled out. He needed to get out of here to see if his family was okay. His heart skipped a beat in excitement as a thought occurred to him. “Maybe I can use this new spell to sense where Deucalion, Peter, and the Argents are so we know when to make a run for it.”

Boyd shook his head. “You passed out tracking Peter, who is one person and was fairly close. Add multiple people and distance, and you’ll be dead weight.” 

Stiles frowned. It was all the more frustrating to see the logic in Boyd’s commentary. He got to his feet, shaking out the cramps from how he’d slept, and started pacing, unconsciously following his path from the night before. 

Boyd watched him blankly, fingers twitching ever-so-slightly against his leg. 

“How can you just _sit_ there?” Stiles snapped, turning sharply before he ran into a wall. “All— _Zen_ , like you’re freaking meditating.” 

Boyd didn’t move for a second, then sighed. “Guess it’s not working anyway.”

“What’s not working?” Stiles demanded immediately, seizing on the distraction from his boredom and frustration.

“I was trying to do something.” He scowled at the door. “Tumbler has too many pieces,” he mumbled. He jerked his shoulders impatiently. 

Stiles let out an explosive sigh and returned to his pacing. At least he could think while he was moving. 

 

Peter, true to his word, returned what felt like hours later with more food and a fresh bucket, which was a lifesaver, because the room was starting to _stank._

Boyd looked up, blinking heavily for a second, surprise flitting across his usually blank face. “Huh. Chris usually only brought one,” he muttered, stilling his fingers.

“Chris apparently only fed you once a day, too,” Peter quipped. “Little does he know that an alpha can pull more magic from a well-kept spark than a malnourished one.” Peter threw Stiles a pointed look that he couldn’t interpret. 

He folded his arms across his chest, fully prepared to go on a hunger strike if that meant sabotaging the Argents. 

Boyd grunted in what sounded like amusement, but, as always, his face didn’t give anything away. 

The food this time was soup, clam chowder, and a stack of grilled cheese. An odd combination, but Stiles’s stomach growled for it anyway. He scowled at Peter until he left, pulling the door shut behind him. 

Boyd reached for the food, hands trembling slightly as he grabbed a sandwich. 

“What are you doing?” Stiles demanded. “He _just_ said us eating will help Argents.” He swatted at Boyd’s hands, leaning over the food to fend Boyd off.

Boyd shoved his shoulder, sending him backwards onto his butt. “Eat the food,” he said flatly, lifting his gaze to Stiles’s, a complicated expression on his face, like he was trying to convey a message as Peter had. 

Stiles waved his arms, almost knocking the bowls over. He was much better at this charades game with Scott.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just posting a little early this week! Enjoy!

Stiles ate the food and hated every minute of it, despite Boyd mouthing “trust me” whenever he stopped to glare at him.

Boyd’s hands shook with each bite. 

Stiles watched him, finally recognizing the signs of fatigue from magic use. At one point in their stare-off, Stiles tried to ask what he was doing, but he only replied, “Eating,” and left it at that. Stiles leaned back against the wall, gently calling on his own magic. The electrical feeling tugged at the air around him. Stiles breathed, imagining tendrils of magic swirling around him across the floor, reaching like searching hands. The magic responded.

“Small spells,” Boyd grumbled, crawling up onto the bed. 

Stiles glared at him, momentarily breaking his attention and losing his grip on the magic. He called it forward again, already starting to feel drained. He closed his eyes, feeling, rather than imagining, the swirl of patterns across the rough gray carpet. The sigil on his hip tingled, so he must have been doing something right. Stiles felt a bump on his shoulder when the magic hit the wall, almost like he’d run into it himself. He huffed out a half-annoyed laugh; leave it to his magic to be as clumsy as he was. He grabbed at the wisps, turning them back to the center of the room, bringing them together until there were two main tendrils. One veered toward the bed, playfully creeping toward Boyd. It vibrated, humming contently with recognition at his prone form. 

“Come back,” Stiles muttered as he realized he wasn’t controlling them anymore. 

The magic darted back to him, bouncing back like an overly excited puppy. It slammed into his lap, then through him. The sigil grew warm as it accepted the return. 

 

Stiles blinked, and suddenly it was the next morning. His neck was crooked to the side at an odd angle, like he’d fallen asleep sitting up. He straightened it, wincing as the muscles protested. He blinked again, one hand going to his neck, the other to his eyes as he groaned.

“Do you not understand the word ‘small’ or the word ‘spells’?” Boyd asked almost pleasantly, staring at him from where he was sitting by the door. 

“I kept it in the room,” Stiles grumbled, looking around blearily for food. Peter hadn’t come by yet, he realized, dismayed. His stomach clutched with hunger. “This waiting game is stupid.” He stood, stretching his arms above his head. “Why don’t they just kill us already?”

Boyd grumbled something that Stiles didn’t catch, so he got up, rubbing the back of his neck, and started pacing—well, shuffling, really. He was still too tired to pace furiously like he’d done before. 

Stiles had given up trying to estimate the time—he was keeping track with his laps around the room—when his skin prickled. “Peter,” he said, pausing mid-stride to stare at the door. 

Boyd scooted away from the door, narrowly missing being pinned between it and the wall. 

The lock clicked just before Peter opened the door, a tray of food and water in one hand, bucket in the other. His nose wrinkled when he stepped into the room.

“You don’t get to make faces when you’re the one not allowing us to shower,” Stiles snapped.

Peter flicked his gaze over to him, pinning him with a cold, blue-eyed stare. “The smell of magic is overpowering any insignificant body odor at the moment.” He looked at Boyd, who’d hopped up to sit on the bed. 

“We’re already caught, why does it matter if we use magic?” Stiles shot back. 

“It doesn’t,” Peter said lightly, catching Stiles off-guard. He offered the tray to Boyd and the jug of water to Stiles before setting the bucket down with an exaggerated sigh. His gaze swept around the room, pausing at the window.

“Don’t worry,” Stiles said, falsely cheery, “we haven’t tried escaping.” 

“Pity.” Peter shrugged. “I might have enjoyed the chase, since the Argents are too preoccupied to entertain me.”

Stiles snorted, straightening indignantly. “So, we’re supposed to entertain you now? While _we’re_ the ones being held prisoner?” He twisted around, but Boyd was ignoring them, and started eating while Stiles watched. 

“A night hike might be fun,” Peter said, cocking his head to the side as he listened to something Stiles couldn’t hear. “Preferably tonight—but without the drinking, of course, you’re both underage.” 

Stiles frowned. “What the hell are you babbling about, you du-” It hit him, like a ton of bricks.

He and Scott had claimed to be night hiking when Jordan had found them stumbling home from the nemeton. When Jordan hadn’t bought the night hiking story, he’d pretended to be drunk, the easiest, most believable thing to do at the time, since his overuse of magic had made him loopy. 

Jordan must have talked to Peter about it—Jordan _had_ said Peter hadn’t smelled any alcohol in the jeep. 

Stiles’s heart raced with understanding, mouth hanging open like the hinge had broken. Peter had basically just given them an escape plan. The Argents were preoccupied; when they escaped, go to the nemeton, don’t use any magic. 

A satisfied look spread over Peter’s face, his head lifting. “Eat up.” He jerked his chin toward the food, keeping his gaze on Stiles. “You’ll need your strength for the procedure tomorrow.” 

Stiles’s heart sank; so tomorrow was their doomsday. They really did have to get out tonight. He opened his mouth, prepared to ask Peter about his family, but he’d already backed out of the room and shut the door.

Stiles turned to ask Boyd what he thought of that, then froze, slowly turning his head to gape at the door. The lock hadn’t clicked into place.

 _The bastard,_ Stiles thought viciously, because Peter helping them meant that he was, in some capacity, actually a good guy. Stiles grimaced; it burned his ass just _thinking_ it. Stiles looked back at Boyd, incredulous; he had a meat and cheese sandwich shoved into his cheeks, unaware of most of the information Peter had just told them. He probably thought it was just Peter taunting them. Stiles gestured wordlessly at the door, then back to Boyd and himself, mouth opening and closing. He wasn’t sure if it was safe to explain what had just happened.

Boyd watched his struggle, then shook his head. “I trust you, Stiles.” Boyd offered him a bag of Cheetos. 

Stiles eyed the food skeptically, recalling that Peter had said the food would help the Argents. 

Boyd hadn’t seemed to believe that at the time, had told Stiles to trust him when he’d tried to refuse the food. 

And now, it seemed, Peter was trying to help them. Stiles took the bag. 

“Let’s keep this…” Boyd flicked his gaze toward the door, “on a need to know basis.” He held out the other plate of food and added, lower, “As close to the last minute as possible.” His fingers twitched against his leg, a small frown on his lips.

“Don’t do that,” Stiles said, opening the Cheetos. 

Boyd stilled immediately, lifting an eyebrow but not verbally questioning him. 

Stiles winked at him for good measure. 

Boyd regarded him silently. 

 

“Time passed slowly” was the biggest understatement Stiles had ever thought of, but he couldn’t figure out another way to phrase it. He examined the floor after a while, wondering if he’d actually worn ruts into the carpet. 

Boyd snagged the jug of water, twisting off the cap. He paused, the container almost to his lips, nostrils flaring. Brows lifted, he held the jug out to Stiles.

Stiles crossed the room to smell it. His brows flew up, too. Gatorade, the clear kind. He looked at Boyd. “What the fuck,” he mouthed. 

Boyd shook his head and shrugged, taking a long drink.

 

By the time the sun was setting, Stiles was about ready to climb out of his skin. Boyd had more color to his face, eyes less sunken, and he was certainly not as shaky. Peter had never shown up with more food like he had the day before. 

Stiles sat on the bed, staring out the window as the sky grew darker. Were they supposed to wait until dark? Midnight? Just before dawn, like when Jordan had found him and Scott? He fidgeted with the blanket, twisting the corner between his fingers. 

Boyd had moved to the floor probably an hour ago, and watched Stiles intently, waiting for him to do something. 

The sky was completely dark, though neither of them bothered to turn on the dim light in the room. Stiles didn’t know what time it was, but decided it was best to wait a little longer, though he didn’t know how much longer it should be. He started counting, mouthing the numbers. 

He made it to a thousand and called it good. It wasn’t like Peter had given them a specific time. He got up, stretching his cramped legs, and went to the door. “Boyd,” Stiles croaked, flapping a hand in his direction.

He rose to his feet and approached, brows furrowed. 

Stiles brought a finger to his lips, not that Boyd was talking. He placed one hand on the handle, leaning an ear against the door. He couldn’t hear anything on the other side, which meant this was it. He groped his free hand out behind him to make sure Boyd was still next to him; his palm hit Boyd’s chest harder than he meant to. He patted him in apology and moved his hand up to his shoulder, gripping firmly enough to let him know to stick close. He turned the handle, holding his breath and braced for alarms to sound. 

The door swung inward soundlessly, making him jerk back awkwardly to avoid being hit. The hallway was just as dark as the bedroom. Stiles looked back at Boyd, whose brows were so high it looked like they were trying to achieve flight. He turned and led the way down the hall, heart pounding with excitement. They were out of the room! They were part of the way to escaping! He’d celebrate later, he reminded himself. 

The hall veered to the left, and since there weren’t any other options, it seemed like they had to follow it. A staircase leading upward came into view when they turned the corner. 

Stiles stumbled over the first step, because of course he did; he stilled, bracing himself for the impending shout of voices and thunder of running steps. None came.

Boyd pressed a hand into his back, urging him on. 

Stiles let out a little breath and kept going; the stairway opened up into a large living room with vaulted ceilings and furniture that looked out of place, new and fancy compared to the rest of the décor. There were still no signs of anyone, which, while helpful, was unnerving. Stiles tapped his fingers against the side of his leg, squinting through the darkness. He was trying to memorize where the furniture-shadows were, that way he could avoid braining himself. He could only imagine the obituary: ‘Death by Argent furniture’ just didn’t have a nice ring to it. 

Boyd nudged him and he started moving again, holding his breath as he carefully skirted a spindly-legged end table. 

A dining room opened up to their right, a table large enough to seat twelve taking up the center, high-backed chairs lining it. A chandelier hung above it, webbed with dust. 

Where the hell was the front door? They passed by a staircase that twisted upward over the living room, leading into a cat walk. 

Boyd nudged his arm, stepping around him and toward a massive kitchen. On the other side of the kitchen, through another doorway, was a second living room and a set of very formal-looking doors. 

They glanced at each other; those doors looked promising. Boyd stepped into the kitchen first, walking on the balls of his feet as he led the way. 

Stiles followed right behind him, moving hastily, and stepped on his own foot; he jerked to the side before he could fall and stepped on a creaky floorboard. He caught his breath, eyes widening and darting around in panic. He expected to see Argents melting out of the walls, armed to the teeth and ready to toss him back into the basement. 

Nothing happened; Boyd grabbed his arm and tugged until he started moving again.

Stiles jerked free in the second living room and an errant hand smacked into a lampshade, which nearly toppled off the end table, but he caught it, gripping it so hard he thought he might just shatter it right there. 

Boyd poked his back impatiently.

He put the lamp back where it belonged, straightening the shade he’d knocked into, and followed him again. 

Boyd pushed the doors open, slowly leaning out to look around. It must have been clear, because he stepped outside. 

Stiles followed him; smoke assaulted his lungs and eyes. So much for a breath of fresh air. He blinked back reflexive tears, stumbling blindly down the front steps after Boyd. He should be leading, he realized. He was the one who knew where to go. 

Boyd stopped when they reached the grass, apparently having the same realization.

Stiles stumbled in front of him, blinking around to get his bearings. The trees started getting thicker to the left, the start of the forest, and the bright lights from town were straight ahead. Several fireworks shot into the air in rapid succession, momentarily drowning out the blare of music. 

Stiles shot off toward the trees, and Boyd followed him, either because he knew Stiles had a plan, or because he didn’t have one himself. Stiles stumbled over the uneven ground, but he didn’t slow down to watch his step; he figured as long as he was on his feet, he was fine.

Maybe after laying low at the nemeton for a little bit, he could swing by his house, grab his dad, Scott, and Melissa, and they could get the hell out of dodge. 

Boyd might even be able to collect Deaton. Then they could all run off together. 

He panted, giving up the idea of being quiet as he scrambled on hands and knees up a steep hill; better quick than quiet now. From the corner of his eye, he saw Boyd struggling but still managing to keep calm and quiet. The forest was eerily quiet, despite the racket Stiles was making, like it was holding its breath and reserving judgment on them.

They were full out running by the time the nemeton came into view. Stiles’s skin crawled with uneasy fear; this was a perfect murder scene set up. 

Boyd grunted curiously at the sight of the large, ancient tree. He turned his head to look at Stiles, face masked by the darkness. 

Stiles beckoned him and practically dove into the roots, army crawling down the tunnel and tumbling into the room. He laid in the dirt, breathing heavily and sweating, listening as Boyd followed him. He was probably struggling a bit; his shoulders were broader than his own or Scott’s.

Boyd was panting by the time he straightened up.

“We can talk here,” Stiles whispered. “Quietly.” 

“I didn’t know this was here,” Boyd mumbled, feeling his way around the walls and roots. He cleared his throat. “I don’t know if Deaton even knows this is here.” His voice was starting to rasp from all the whispering they’d been doing. 

Stiles huffed out a dry laugh. “Now _that’s_ surprising.” He rolled over and pushed himself up so he was sitting. He could still hear the music and fireworks, not that that was surprising; Beacon Hills was so small. He huffed, pulling his knees to his chest. He had been in the Argents’ basement for at least two days, maybe three? He frowned, trying to count in his head. How many times had he seen the sun rise from the window? A few. Boyd’s festival should have been over with, or close to ending as people slowly lost interest. Not like this, with the music and fireworks like it had just started. His chest tightened. 

This festival was for him. 

A choked noise escaped his sore throat. They were celebrating his _death._ His sinuses burned as his eyes filled with tears. His father was probably a wreck. He wiped his eyes on his sleeve, thankful that Boyd didn’t seem to be paying attention to him.

“How’d you know about this place?” Boyd wandered to the center of the room, running his hands over the main root.

Stiles wondered if he could see all the sigils in the dark; he guessed he could see _something_ , if he knew to go there. “My mom took Scott and me here when we were little.” Stiles was thankful his voice sounded normal. He continued to wipe his eyes. “The tree smells like magic, so it hides us and apparently covers our individual scents and noises. I don’t exactly know how, but it works.” 

“This is where Peter told us to go?” Boyd shuffled closer, sitting on the ground across from him.

“Yeah.” Stiles smiled weakly. “A while ago I came here to vent some magic and Jordan caught Scott and me trying to get home. We—I claimed we were night hiking.”

“Night hiking?”

“Not one of my best lies,” Stiles said a little loudly, “thank you for your input.” 

“I assume the drinking comment was from you exhausting yourself using magic?” he asked disdainfully. 

“Yeah.” Stiles rubbed his forehead against his knees. He wanted to go _home_.

Tires crunched against the dirt above them; they froze, staring upward with horror. Stiles strained his ears, concentrating hard to gather a hint as to who it was. 

A car door creaked open and slammed shut, followed by the uneven thud-crunch-thud of someone walking with an injured foot. 

“Jordan,” Stiles breathed, rising to his feet. His heart skipped a beat with exhilaration; he scrambled toward the tunnel, getting halfway up before a snarl stopped him in his tracks. 

Another snarl, lower, deeper, answered and the first stopped—or almost stopped, dropped down to a low grumble. 

“Stiles,” Jordan called, close to the entrance of the tunnel. “Boyd. It’s alright to come out. It’s just us.”

Stiles wiggled his way out, thoroughly covered in dirt and sweat. He stumbled out of the way so Boyd had room to emerge, too. 

Jordan’s car sat where he usually parked the jeep, and Jordan himself stood halfway between them and the car. 

Two glowing yellow eyes flashed through the backseat window. Stiles’s heart stuttered, then jumped into a frantic race. 

The backdoor flew open, the wolf springing free, leaping toward him. He didn’t even have time to step back.

Peter snarled from the shadows warningly, also lurching forward. 

“No!” Stiles yelled, heart suddenly feeling about ten times lighter.

Peter stopped, probably out of sheer shock than obedience. 

Stiles held his arms out as Scott slammed into him, picking him up off the ground and pulling him into a crushing hug. Stiles threw his arms around his neck, eyes filling with tears that he couldn’t seem to help. He wasn’t dead. He was alive, there was no blood. Everything else could wait. 

“I thought they killed you!” Scott shouted, words muffled and slurred by fangs. 

“It’s alright, Scotty,” Stiles wheezed, hugging him back. “Everything will be alright.” 

Another round of fireworks made Stiles flinch. 

Scott growled; the reverberations shook his chest where they were squashed together. He dropped Stiles back to his feet, but didn’t move away. 

“Interesting,” Peter muttered watching them intently. 

“We’ve got to go,” Jordan said, glancing over his shoulder at the car. 

The _empty_ car, Stiles realized. “What about my dad?” he demanded. “And Boyd’s? And Scott’s mom?”

“You three are our priority,” Peter said. 

“Do they know we’re okay?” Boyd asked, stepping toward them. 

“Of course,” Peter said, cutting off whatever Jordan was about to say.

Stiles relaxed. That was good, at least. He took a deep breath. It seemed the only option that kept him alive was to go with them. He looked at Scott and laughed, hysterical, breathless. “I thought you were dead, too, you know,” he said, wiping his cheek. “I thought you—you were bleeding all over the place.”

“Dude,” Scott said with a headshake. “Deucalion’s an alpha,” he reminded him. He pulled his shirt to the side, showing the unblemished skin of his collarbone. “As for our parents…”

“We’ll come back for them,” Stiles said, looking expectantly at Peter, but it was Jordan who answered. 

“Yes,” he said firmly, nodding. 

Stiles nodded, watching them carefully. So far, Peter helping Boyd and him escape the Argents fell in line with their good-guy act. He grabbed Scott’s arm when he stepped toward the car. 

Scott stopped, casting him a curious glance. 

“Why us?” Stiles asked, noticing that Jordan was shifting his weight and looking around nervously. 

“Helping you also helps us.”

“Peter!” Jordan snapped. 

Peter shrugged. “The Argents want Stiles and Boyd dead. Deucalion wants to kill Scott, who’s already feeling a pull toward his alpha. Killing Scott would make the dick stronger. On the other hand, if you come with us, not only will the three of you live, but the Hale pack will be stronger. Win-win.” 

“Who says we’d fight with you?” Stiles demanded angrily, stepping in front of Scott and Boyd, marching right up to Peter as if he couldn’t rip him apart like so much tissue paper. 

“You don’t have to _fight_ with us,” Peter said. “Would you rather stay here and die?” He casually turned to Jordan. “Let me know what they decide. I have to pretend I found those two missing.” He brushed a kiss over Jordan’s cheek, then looked back at Stiles. “Decide fast.” He looked past him to Scott then, his expression mostly twisted in surprise. 

“Do you really feel drawn toward Deucalion?” Stiles asked slowly, turning to Scott.

He cringed, ducking his head. “It’s not as bad _now_.” His words sounded normal again. His fangs had shrunk back to their human size. 

“You consider Stiles pack,” Peter said. “You have a stronger bond with him even though Deucalion bit you, so, yes, the pull will feel less powerful around him.” He hummed. “Decision?”

“I’m still trying to process that you two are actually helping us,” Stiles snapped. 

“I’m going with you,” Boyd announced, stepping around them and walking to the car. 

“That’s alright,” Peter said, nodding. “We’re still processing the fact that _you’re_ the spark and not Scott.” He glanced back at Jordan, who nodded. 

“What?” Stiles gasped; even Scott had jumped slightly in surprise.

“You were so protective of him,” Jordan explained. “We thought he was the one hiding something.” He hobbled back toward the car, leaning against the door.

Stiles laughed a little, and Scott smiled shakily. “Not quite.”

“So…?” Jordan prompted, gesturing at the backseat. 

Scott whined, low in the back of his throat. 

Stiles understood, despite the new, distinctly canine cadence to the sound. “Alright,” he sighed. “Let’s go.” 

Scott bumped his shoulder gently and bound to the car. 

Peter, the jerk, looked smug. 

“Are the rest of the Hales like you?” Stiles asked as he passed Peter. 

He smirked. “I am one of a kind.”

“Thank the gods for that,” he mumbled. 

Jordan laughed, then smiled when Peter glowered at him. He pushed off the car, taking a step; as he did, a loud rip echoed through the trees. A piece of Jordan’s pants had caught on the door handle, tearing them and exposing Iron Man boxer briefs. “Motherfucker,” he hissed, snatching the denim off the door and tearing the rest off his pants. “ _One. Day._ ” 

Peter looked concerned, stepping closer and dropping a hand on his shoulder. 

“Boyd?” Stiles asked, ducking down to peer into the passenger seat through the back door. “It would help if we got there in one piece!” 

Peter’s concern melted to confusion, and Jordan’s brows furrowed. It was odd to see, like they were just different pieces of the same machine, one action setting off an equal one in the other. 

Boyd sighed. “Touch my hand,” he instructed. 

Jordan hesitated, looking over at Stiles, then Peter. 

“It’s a spell,” Boyd explained. “C’mon.”

“Did you jinx me?” Jordan gasped, lunging forward and snatching Boyd’s hand.

Peter’s face darkened while Stiles watched him, wary. 

“More like a curse, but yeah.” Boyd shook his hand free of Jordan’s. “Done.”

“Ohh,” Scott breathed. “That smelled…salty?”

“When?” Jordan asked, frowning at Boyd. 

“No one comes to Beacon Hills,” he replied flatly. “Not even for a boyfriend.”

“The bus,” Jordan breathed, looking horrified. 

The anger on Peter’s face morphed into rage, dark enough that Stiles wanted to take a step back. “You did _what_?”

“No one’s died from it,” Boyd said, unfazed. 

“Peter,” Jordan said gently, stepping up to him and setting his hands on his chest soothingly. “I’m alright.” 

Peter glanced sharply down at the boot, but he snorted and put his arms around him, brushing his nose across his temple.

“I’ll be fine. You need to take care of everything here.”

Peter pressed his lips to Jordan’s forehead, closing his eyes for a second, then trailed kisses down his face until he reached his mouth. He framed his face with his hands, pressing his thumbs into his cheekbones like he was holding something precious and didn’t want to let go. 

Stiles felt vaguely uncomfortable, like he was intruding on a private moment. Possibly it was because he hadn’t really had time to consider and accept the idea that not only did Jordan and Peter know each other personally, but they were _together. Personally._ He looked toward Scott, brows pinched, but he couldn’t help glancing back. 

“You need to be safe, too,” he said against his lips. He sighed and pressed their foreheads together, then straightened up to cast Boyd a furious look. “Don’t do anything reckless.” 

“I never do,” Jordan quipped. 

Peter kissed him again, like he couldn’t help himself, then opened the driver’s door to usher him in. “Don’t stop until you get home.”

“I know,” Jordan replied. 

Peter shut the door and stepped back. He looked at Stiles, his eyes cold. “Well?”

Stiles studied him for a moment before climbing into the car to sit beside Scott. He slammed the door and buckled in, but twisted around. He watched Peter until they got far enough away that he couldn’t tell if he was staring at Peter or a tree.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting this to celebrate that I finished writing this out!! :D It's not quite finished being beta read, so after this I'm still posting on Wednesday every week! Thanks so much for your comments, I love them. Enjoy!

Scott curled up against Stiles’s side an hour into the trip; by the two hour mark, he was asleep and drooling on Stiles’s shoulder. 

“I didn’t see any _Leaving Beacon Hills_ signs.” Boyd craned his neck, squinting through the darkness at the sides of the roads. 

“We’re taking backstreets and service roads.” Jordan tapped his palms against the steering wheel. “We were out of Beacon Hills a little while ago.”

Stiles rested his forehead on the window. It was strange leaving Beacon Hills, especially after years of people trying and not succeeding. Part of him tensed; was Peter _actually_ covering for them? He swallowed uneasily, sure that any moment reality was going to fall apart around him, leaving him back in the little basement room. His eyes slipped shut. 

 

The soft rumble of the car rolling to a stop on gravel made Stiles jerk awake. The sudden movement dislodged Scott, sending him bolt upright faster than Stiles thought possible. Stiles watched him in sleepy fascination; Scott’s fangs dropped over his bottom lip, eyes lighting up gold. He shook his head in confusion, flexing his jaw and contorting his mouth, trying to make the fangs fit in his mouth. He didn’t quite manage, but when he blinked over at Stiles, they were at least behind his lip. 

Jordan watched the struggle in the rearview mirror with mild interest. “We’re here,” he announced.

They were in the wide driveway of an old-fashioned, sprawling house; Jordan had double parked one of three garage doors. The house was big enough to rival the Argents’. 

“Whoa,” Scott said, leaning forward to see the windows on the second floor. 

Despite the sun being mostly risen, Stiles could tell most of the main floor lights were on and even a handful of the upper windows were glowing. 

“Come on, kids.” Jordan pushed his door open. 

Boyd got out easily, stretching his arms above his head and flexing his shoulders. 

Stiles stretched his legs; most of his body was stiff from the way he’d fallen asleep. “All three of us are eighteen—or over eighteen,” he grumbled, flicking a glance at Boyd. He slipped out of the car and onto the driveway, still stretching his muscles. 

“Anyone born after ’87 is a kid to me.” Jordan hobbled across the drive; he was glaring at the stairs leading up the porch, but had a general air of relief, like something in him had relaxed at the sight of the house. 

Scott hovered by Stiles’s side, shifting his weight uneasily and glancing around. “Smells weird,” he whispered. 

Stiles looped his arm through Scott’s, gently tugging him toward the door. He followed obediently, gripping tight to Stiles’s arm. 

The front door swung open before Jordan even reached it. A regal, dark-haired woman stood tall in the doorway. Her sharp eyes took in Jordan, pausing half a second on his boot, then skimming past him to Boyd, who was halfway up the steps, then to Stiles, and Scott. 

Scott lowered his head against Stiles’s shoulder, glancing up under his lashes at the woman, a low rumble in his chest. Stiles reached up, patting the side of Scott’s head awkwardly. 

“What happened, Jordan?” she asked, stepping aside to let him inside. 

Jordan gave a weak laugh. “I have one Hale of a report to give.” 

“That joke died about a half second after Peter came up with it.” Her eyes tracked Boyd when he darted into the house at Jordan’s heels, but she didn’t try to stop him. 

Stiles followed at what he thought was a more dignified pace, though that was only because Scott was clinging to him like a limpet and slowing him down. He stumbled up the steps, holding the woman’s gaze. It wasn’t polite to stare, even if it did look like Jordan had fished them out of a ditch. He strolled through the front door and into a huge, vaulted entryway. A staircase sat to the right, leading up to an opening that overlooked the door. The foyer where they were standing continued into what looked like a living room with doors on either side of the hall.

Scott gave a low whine, pressing closer against Stiles’s back.

Two sets of footsteps above them made Stiles look up.

A couple of young women, both sporting the woman’s dark hair and oversized nightshirts, wandered into view. 

“Jordan!” the younger of the two chirped, rushing down the stairs in a blur of green and white. 

“Hey, Cora.” Jordan caught her in a hug, tipping backwards as she leaned on him. 

It took Stiles a moment to realize she was holding him up.

“Jordan,” the woman at the door said pointedly. 

Cora let go, bouncing backwards to take in everyone else, her brows lifted in surprise. 

“Talia,” Jordan said, “this is Boyd, Stiles, and Scott.” He gestured at each of them as he said their names. “Guys, this is Alpha Talia Hale, her daughters Cora and Laura.” He pointed at the other woman hovering on the stairs. He looked back to Talia. “Where’s everyone else?”

Stiles’s heart skipped a beat. There were _more_ of them? 

Scott inched closer to him, a feat Stiles didn’t actually think was possible until he did it. 

Talia glanced at him. 

Stiles schooled his expression into careful neutrality, more out of habit than anything else. 

“Nick, Erica, and Derek are patrolling,” Talia said to Jordan without looking away from Stiles. “Isaac is in the basement.” 

Stiles’s heart must have done something weird; Laura straightened, hand tightening on the banister, and Cora stepped closer to Jordan, hugging him again to hide the unintentional move. 

“Something wrong?” Talia asked. 

Jordan frowned at Stiles and, by default of proximity, Scott. 

“You have someone in your basement?” Stiles asked, glancing at Jordan accusingly. “I mean, I guess…you know, the Argents just had Boyd and me in their basement.” His gaze snapped back to Talia, trying his hardest to channel the Snow Queen as his anxiety did the cha-cha under his skin. “Are _we_ being put in the basement?”

“No, Stiles,” Jordan began.

“He’s not a prisoner, he’s sleeping. On the couch, not in a cell,” Talia added. Her shoulders relaxed as she understood, and she motioned them further into the house. “You must be tired. Cora, can you show them to the guest rooms?”

She nodded, bumping her head under Jordan’s chin affectionately before stepping back. 

“I’m going to my room,” he announced, looking at the stairs in disapproval, like it was their fault he would have to limp up them. 

“I’d like to know what happened in Beacon Hills before you bury yourself in Peter’s blankets,” Talia said, sounding amused. 

“How about I get them, and I’ll meet you in the kitchen or living room, wherever you end up?” 

She smiled indulgently. “That works, then.”

Jordan hobbled two steps before Laura took pity on him. 

“I can carry you,” she offered, looking at his boot.

He looked like he was going to wave her off, but after a second glance at the offending steps conceded. 

It was quite a sight to see Laura Hale, a slim but admittedly sturdy-looking woman, scoop Jordan up bridal style like he weighed no more than the average toddler, and ascend the steps, graceful as a queen sweeping toward her throne. 

Stiles decided that he would have to remember how deceptively strong the Hales were, apparently. 

Cora led them through to a living room, which opened to a large kitchen and dining room. To the left of the living room was a darkened hallway. “Door on the left is a bathroom, the two doors on the right are guest rooms. Take your pick.” She smiled at them, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. 

Boyd stumbled into the first room, so Stiles and Scott took the second. 

It was simply furnished: a queen bed with nightstands on either side, and a dresser with a mirror against the opposite wall.

Cora hovered by the door, watching them. “I’ll see whose clothes I can snatch.” She trotted off down the hall.

Stiles stood by the bed, a hand resting limply on a pillow. 

Scott had left his side when they got to the room, and was now exploring the dresser and closet. 

“Wish we had been able to bring a bag or something,” Scott muttered, moving to the window and flipping open the blinds. Blinding sunlight flooded the room. 

After a minute of blinking, Stiles saw a large backyard, similar to the landscape in Beacon Hills, trees, a lot of them, and, shockingly, hills. 

“Next time we’re making a great-escape-slash-mad-dash-for-our-lives, we’ll have to remember that.” Stiles nodded, sitting down on the edge of the bed facing the window. 

Scott smiled wryly. “At least the Hales smell nice.” He sat beside him. 

Stiles laughed, surprising himself and Scott. “Nice like they don’t stink? Or nice like good people?”

“Both?” Scott snorted. “I don’t know. Beacon Hills smelled _bad_ , but here smells good…like grapes and mint.” 

“That doesn’t sound like a good combination.” Stiles grimaced, then snickered. “Grape toothpaste?”

Scott bumped their shoulders together, knocking Stiles right off the bed. 

He landed on all fours, staring wide eyed up at Scott. 

Scott stared back, horrified. “I’m so sorry,” he gasped, grabbing his arm and pulling him back onto the bed. Without Stiles helping. Somehow. 

“You guys alright?” Cora asked, stepping into the doorway with clothes bundled in her arms.

“We’re fine,” Stiles said, adjusting himself and standing. He crossed the room and accepted the clothes she held out. 

“If you say so,” she said slowly. She glanced over them, eyes lingering on Scott before snapping back to Stiles. “The bathroom has a shower and tub combo.” 

“Got it.” Stiles smiled weakly. He was well aware he was covered in dirt, blood, sweat, and whatever else grew in the woods and subsequently attached itself to him. He nodded at Scott and ducked around Cora before she could leave the room. 

After figuring out how to work the shower—why was it different in every home? Wasn’t there someone out there thinking to themselves, _Hmm, this should be a universal thing, I could make a ton of money selling a universal shower design that everyone knows how to use!_?—Stiles got to enjoy the hot water. It actually got hot enough to steam and the water pressure was _divine._ It was _literally_ nice enough for Stiles to think the word “divine” and mean it. 

He shook himself out of his hot-water-massage-stupor as quickly as he could and washed at top speed. He got out as soon as he was done, feeling guilty for his three minute lingering at the start. There were other people who needed to use the hot water, too, no reason for him to hog it all. 

He studied his foggy reflection, the bruises on his face, along his side from where Deucalion had thrown him to the ground. His lip was still split from the punch to the face, too, and as he watched, a thin, watery trail of blood dripped from it. He sighed and grabbed at the clothes. They were huge, he realized immediately. The sweatpants hung dangerously low on his hips, even with the drawstring cinched as tight as they could go; his new sigil was visible over the waistband. 

Thankfully, the shirt was also three sizes too big, and hung halfway to his knees—they would safely cover anything if the pants broke free. He rubbed his face in a towel, carefully avoiding the bruises. He held the towel against his face for a moment, just breathing. Their families were safe, even if they were back in Beacon Hills. Now was a good time to regroup, he decided, figure out what their next step was. 

Stiles lifted his face out of the towel and folded it over his arm, along with his filthy clothes. He stepped into the hall; both bedroom doors were open, and they were both empty. 

Voices drifted down the hall from the living room, so Stiles carefully hung his towel on the handle of his and Scott’s shared room, depositing his clothes next to the dresser for lack of anywhere better, and followed the voices. 

Jordan was perched in a recliner in the living room, wrapped up like a burrito in a well-loved blanket. 

Talia and Laura sat on the couch across from him, both leaning forward intently while Cora paced behind them like a caged animal. 

Scott and Boyd were squished together in the other recliner; Scott looked mildly irritated and Boyd looked indifferent—and clean. 

All of them looked up when Stiles approached. “What did I miss?” he asked awkwardly as they stared at him. 

“I haven’t started yet,” Jordan said, rubbing his face against the blanket absently. “Beacon Hills is a hot mess,” he said to the room at large. “Peter’s in way over his head.”

Talia rested her hands in her lap, letting out a slow breath and sitting up straighter. “Start at the beginning, when you arrived.”

Jordan nodded. “Okay. I sat next to Boyd on the bus-”

“Okay, maybe just the important bits,” Laura interrupted impatiently, glancing at Boyd. 

Stiles edged around the recliner until he could sit on the armrest beside Scott. 

“This _is_ important. He put a spell on me and I didn’t even notice.” Jordan winced. “I was supposed to be scoping out possible sparks to help them stay under cover,” he added, glancing at the three sharing the recliner. He continued, “Boyd flew right under the radar, I didn’t even know until it was announced that he was being taken. I managed to get a job at the sheriff’s department. Given my background, it was easy, like we thought.” He nodded. 

“What spell?” Talia asked, eyes narrowing. 

“What’s your background?” Scott asked, leaning up against Stiles’s side. 

“Spell is unimportant,” Jordan said, darting a quick glance at Boyd. “He undid it.” He looked at Scott next. “I gather and organize information, kind of like a spy, but that sounds a lot fancier than what I actually do. I like my library. I don’t go in the field often.”

“Doesn’t Batman have a library?” Stiles asked, trying to dispel some nerves. “I feel like he does.” He braced his feet against the floor, trying not to let Scott knock him off the chair with his weird new affection. 

The confusion in the room was almost tangible. 

Stiles sighed, and then Scott burst into laughter. At least someone understood. “You might not be Murphy anymore, but you did still get bitten by a bat, so you’re still Batman.” 

“You were bit by a _bat_?” Cora gasped, halting in place. 

“You didn’t have any luck out there, did you?” Laura frowned at his boot. “I’m surprised Peter didn’t ship you home before this.”

“The bat is unimportant,” Jordan said loudly. “I won the stand-off with it, end of story!” 

“You _won_ -”

“Okay,” Talia cut in, “so how did you find Stiles? Since you missed Boyd.”

Jordan pressed his lips together. “I missed him too.”

Talia lifted a dark brow. 

Stiles smirked, leaning too far back; his butt slipped off the armrest and he landed in Scott’s lap. He seemed unfazed and merely shifted slightly. 

“Peter and I thought Scott was the spark,” Jordan admitted. He glanced at them, tangled together on the recliner.

Boyd, with a huff, gave up his seat and sat on the floor. 

Stiles winced when Scott’s elbow caught on a bruise as he adjusted his position. 

Scott went still, watching him with concern.

“We saw how protective Stiles was with Scott, so we assumed it was because he was hiding something—like him being the spark. We were wrong. Deucalion caught them both before I could.”

“I always look out for Scott,” Stiles said, shifting until he was squished next to Scott instead of on top of him. “We didn't trust Jordan and especially not Peter. People don't willingly go to Beacon Hills, Beacon Hills is inflicted upon them. And...Peter came across as creepy ninety-five percent of the time, don’t even try to say he didn’t.” He shut his mouth, though, because even though he was telling the truth, insulting a relative of the family that was housing you was not the smartest move.

Except then Cora laughed, and it looked like Laura was trying hard not to smile. 

That was certainly not the reaction he’d been expecting.

Talia regarded him coldly, but didn’t say anything. She turned to Jordan. “Did you find out anything useful about the Argents?”

Jordan shook his head. “I didn’t even see any of them the whole time. Chris is obviously being friendly with Peter,” his tone shifted into something dry, almost bitter. “Peter’s not having any of it. Deucalion’s draining sparks like we assumed, claws to the back of the neck, then transferring the magic to Kate and Gerard by reversing the process.” He took a slow, careful breath. “Deucalion said the next step for Peter is to become an alpha so he can do that, too.”

Talia, Laura, and Cora all stiffened. 

“How would he become an alpha?” Scott asked, beating Stiles to the question.

“Killing an alpha,” Talia replied. “I assume I’d be the one they would want him to kill.”

Jordan nodded. “That sounded like the plan.”

“Deucalion’s the one who bit you?” Laura asked, looking at Scott. 

He nodded, gripping the hem of Stiles’s borrowed shirt. 

“It’ll take a while to adjust.” She looked apologetic. “You seem to be handling it well.”

Stiles felt pinned between his best friend and the armrest, like Scott was trying to cage him in without actually noticing he was doing it. _This_ was _well_?

“It helps that Stiles’s here,” Scott said, slumping against him. 

Laura nodded. “That’s understandable. Let us know if you need anything.”

Talia was watching them now, the intensity of her gaze like a physical weight. 

“Okay,” Scott chirped, holding Stiles’s arm so tightly he expected him to demand a ransom any second. 

“They’re back!” Cora’s head whipped toward the hall seconds before the front door opened. 

“We’ve got guests!” a female voice called. 

A lower voice muttered something Stiles couldn’t hear, but made Laura roll her eyes and Cora chuckle. Heavy footsteps up the stairs signaled the man’s departure. Two more sets of footsteps made their way toward them.

“I think this changes breakfast plans,” another man said conversationally. “Jordan! I take it something happened since Peter isn’t with you? And the Argents are still alive,” he sighed. 

Jordan glowered from under his blanket nest at the tall, broad man who came into the room. “Obviously. Nick, this is Boyd, Stiles, and Scott. Kids, this is Nick, Talia’s husband.” 

Nick’s thick dark eyebrows rose in a split second of surprise, but he quickly composed himself, beaming and throwing his arms out in a warm gesture. “Welcome, make yourselves at home. You guys must be _starving_. I’ll go start breakfast.” He kissed Talia on his way past the couch to the kitchen, swinging a large hand out to tousle Laura’s hair, though she dodged his reach.

“I just straightened it. No.” 

Cora leaped forward to mess it up herself, but Nick caught her around the middle, tossed her over his shoulder, and continued to the kitchen without missing a step. Cora propped her elbows on the middle of his back and her chin in her hands, looking put out.

Talia sighed. “You coming in here, Erica?” she asked.

“Considering it.” A blond girl sauntered into the room. “I was also considering sneaking downstairs to attack Isaac for switching my shampoo and conditioner for his.” She frowned, looking over the group. She pointed. “Scott.” She shifted her pointing finger. “Stiles…” She shifted down and a smirk curled her mouth. “Didn’t catch your name.” 

Boyd popped to his feet like he’d been propelled upward. “I’m Vernon Boyd the Third.”

“The third?” Jordan asked. “Deaton’s name isn’t Vernon Boyd.”

Boyd looked utterly mortified. 

“Why’d you stand?” Scott asked, a smile creeping over his mouth. He looked from Erica to Boyd, like the answer was one of them. 

“I don’t know,” Boyd muttered, sitting back down hastily.

Erica sat on the couch with Talia and Laura, watching Boyd with amusement. 

“You guys are sitting there like statues,” Cora commented, having escaped her dad. “Anything else, Jordan?” she prompted, leaning over the back of the couch, propping her chin on Laura’s shoulder. 

“If I think of anything, I’ll let you all know. I’m just mad that we had to leave Peter behind.” He sighed quietly. “I want him home.”

“We’re all ready to go home. And we will,” Talia said decisively. 

“Who wants to finish the house tour?” Cora asked after a beat of silence. “Food should be done soon and that seems like so much more fun than a staring contest.” 

Boyd shook his head and muttered, “No thanks.”

Scott hunkered down in the recliner, taking Stiles with him, as if he was taking cover. 

Stiles needed a break. He loved Scott dearly, he did, like a brother, but he needed his arm. “I’ll come,” he said, wiggling free. 

Scott stared up at him, momentarily lost and betrayed, then sighed, tucking his legs beneath him, resigned to his fate. 

Stiles skirted around the coffee table and couch, straight to Cora.

She smiled at him. “This is all of the main floor, so let’s do the upstairs first.” She led him to the stairs by the front door, then up. It dumped them in the middle of a hallway. “My room, Laura’s, Peter’s and Jordan’s.” She pointed down the hall to the right. “A few linen closets and a bathroom.” She motioned for him to follow her down the left hall. 

A second living room was almost on top of the one downstairs. It was furnished similarly, too, with two recliners, a couch, and a coffee table, but bean bag chairs and oversized pillows lined the left wall. 

The next door on the right was _Peter’s_ library, that Jordan had claimed was his. The door on the left was Derek’s room, according to Cora, the guy who’d gone straight upstairs after getting home with Nick and Erica. The room at the very end was their parents’ room. 

There was no way Stiles was going to be able to keep track of whose room was which, at least for now. He listened with half an ear as Cora chattered. On the surface, the Hales seemed kind. His stomach twisted as he reminded himself not to get too comfortable. He didn’t know them that well yet. 

A door Cora hadn’t pointed out—or maybe she had and he just wasn’t listening—opened and someone wearing only their skin stepped out in front of him. Stiles stepped right into him, the muffled, wet slap of a clothed body colliding with a very naked and very damp body echoed through the hall—or maybe just through Stiles’s head. 

Judgmental green eyes stared down at him like it was his fault—like he’d done it on purpose. 

Stiles looked; he couldn’t help it—the man, probably the other brother Cora mentioned—was well built in every way, all solid muscle, and not moving around Stiles to continue on his way. A low croak escaped Stiles’s throat. 

_Derek_ , that was his name, right, Cora just said that, rolled his eyes and finally side stepped around him to continue down the hall.

Stiles turned like a puppet on a string, tracking the movement. 

Derek had a large, black tattoo on his back that could’ve passed for a sigil, and… “That _ass_ ,” Stiles sighed, and then his heart clenched. He closed his eyes, praying he’d said that in his head. 

Derek’s footsteps stopped. “What?” 

Stiles was going to die. The Hales were going to kill him. “I—uh, got gas.” Or he would just embarrass himself right into the grave, do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars. He was sure it was possible. 

Cora’s laughter exploded out of her somewhere behind him. 

Derek grunted, unimpressed, and kept walking. 

Dead. Just dead.


	13. Chapter 13

Stiles sat next to Boyd at the kitchen table. Cora had laughed so hard and long that she had waved him off, saying they’d continue the tour later. Stiles glanced up to make sure Scott was still in the living room with Talia, Erica, and Laura; he was, sitting and studying them with a most un-Scott-like focus. 

Nick was running, literally, to the grocery store because one of the “heathens” had eaten all of the bread and hadn’t replaced it, and breakfast wouldn’t be breakfast, apparently, without toast, or French toast, if Erica had her way.

Stiles didn’t know where Jordan had gone. He rested his elbows on the table and his head in his hands, sighing.

“What did you _do?_ ” Boyd asked under his breath. 

Stiles glanced at the living room again, wondering briefly just _how_ well werewolves could hear. Perhaps whispering was low enough to disguise their conversation. “I visually molested their son and called their uncle—oh, god, the _alpha’s brother_ —creepy,” Stiles muttered back, hiding his face behind his hands again. His eye throbbed as he pressed his palm into the bruises, but he didn’t pull back. 

Boyd snorted out a laugh. “At least you didn’t jump to your feet like the queen had entered the room,” he muttered.

Stiles smiled. “That was pretty funny.”

“Maybe I should just curtsey next time,” Boyd breathed, staring with distant horror into the kitchen. “Bring an offering.”

Laura twitched on the couch, ducking her head. 

Stiles could only see the back of her and, frowning, glanced past her to look at Scott. 

He blinked wide eyes at him, mouthing something Stiles couldn’t see. 

Cora flew around the corner into the living room, a fist pressed to her mouth to smother what looked like laughter, if the gleaming in her eyes was any indication. “My dudes,” she said breathlessly, “my bros, my guys.” She slung an arm over each of their shoulders. “Before you keep talking, since no one here but me apparently has the courtesy to tell you…We can hear you whispering.” A giggle escaped her. “While I might not be able to hear your heartbeats from the bathroom, everyone in the living room can. And Isaac is currently laughing himself breathless halfway up the stairs from the basement.” 

Stiles’s face burned as he sunk lower in his chair. Of course they could hear them. He threw Boyd an exasperated, commiserating look. 

Boyd pressed his lips together and shrugged. “Got to go for broke at this point.” He shook his head. “Can’t humiliate ourselves much more.”

Cora laughed, patting them on the shoulders. 

 

The Hales being nice was a façade, Stiles decided, watching Nick scoop heaping amounts of food onto plates.

Isaac, who’d finally emerged from the basement wiping tears off his face, sat at the table with him, Boyd, Scott, and the Hales minus Jordan, who was asleep, and Derek, because Stiles had groped him and then claimed to be gassy which meant he was likely avoiding him, and that was perfectly fine with him.

Stiles had been surprised when curly-haired Isaac had stumbled up the steps onto the main floor. The steps to the basement were kind of hidden—just behind a door off the kitchen that Stiles had assumed was a pantry. He recognized Isaac himself—from the surprise on Boyd and Scott’s faces, they had, too. They’d all been in the same second grade class, before the town really went to shit. 

“My dad finally lost a gasket,” Isaac said; Nick winced as he was pouring a cup of orange juice, either from the malaphor or the reminder of what’d happened, Stiles wasn’t sure. Isaac dug into the eggs on his plate. “Cora found me half-dead and brought me home, she and I were friends at that point. They nursed me back to health and I’ve never gone back.” 

“We thought you died,” Stiles said. “Dad had search parties out everywhere, even managed to get cadaver dogs from a neighboring city. The school, graveyard…they tore up the town. He even tried to arrest your dad, but since he couldn’t prove anything…”

Isaac looked guiltily down at his plate. “A lot happened at once. I didn’t think people would worry.” 

“When were you…” Scott waved a hand at himself, then at Isaac, nodding for good measure. 

Isaac didn’t understand Scott’s sign language and looked to Stiles for interpretation. 

“When were you bitten?” Stiles translated, since Scott didn’t seem inclined to elaborate. 

“Oh!” Isaac frowned in thought. “A couple years ago. Talia,” his voice noticeably softened with affection on her name, “asked me if I wanted the bite, gave me a rundown of the pros and cons and what to expect, what could go wrong, and I said yes.”

Stiles glanced at Talia, sitting two seats down, smiling with her chin propped on her palm as she listened to Laura talk. That seemed like a simple explanation, except it seemed _too_ simple, and Stiles didn’t know where or when the other foot would drop, but it was only a matter of time. 

“Are you liking it?” Scott asked, nervously bouncing his foot. 

“It took some getting used to, but yeah. Everything’s different, obviously.” Isaac grinned. “Once I caught myself thinking in _smells_ and I had to take a step back and try to figure out what the hell _that_ was. That messed with my head the most, I think.” 

Scott smiled back. “The smells are strange. Nothing smells bad like—gross bad, it all just smells like—what it is.” He frowned at Stiles, apparently realizing what he’d said didn’t make much sense. 

Stiles shrugged. 

“It’ll get easier,” Nick assured him, crunching down on four pieces of bacon at once. “Help yourself, Derek,” he added. 

Stiles bit down on a groan as Derek came into the kitchen. Somehow, by the grace of luck, he managed to smile normally. “Hi.”

Derek stared back at him.

Yup, that was as awkward as Stiles had feared it would be. He shoved half a pancake in his mouth. He couldn’t talk if his mouth was full.

“You’re wearing my clothes,” Derek grunted.

“Is that why you were naked?” Stiles asked, shoving the pancake into his cheeks and nearly choking. Turns out even pancakes can’t keep him quiet. 

Derek froze by the stove, one hand halfway to the spatula balanced on the edge of the egg pan. “Most people I know don’t shower with their clothes on.”

“Most people?” Stiles forced himself to swallow, trying and failing not to imagine Derek naked again. He'd seen all the skin and muscles, just acres of it, enough to last someone a lifetime. Someone. Not him. _Oh boy._ “I’m just going to keep eating.” Stiles looked back at his plate. Oh, god, this was awkward. What did Boyd say about not being _more_ humiliating?

Across the table, Cora shook in silent laughter, her head down and resting on her forearm. 

Isaac hid a smile behind his glass when Derek glared at them all. 

“Please don’t choke.” Scott nudged Stiles with his elbow when he took a particularly large bite.

Stiles scoffed. “I never choke. I don’t have a gag reflex.” He was done. He would have dropped his head straight down on the table in an effort to knock himself unconscious, if his plate hadn’t been in the way. 

Derek lifted an eyebrow, setting his plate down on the table. 

Stiles stood up, then sat back down, manners conflicting with his utter humiliation. It was rude to leave in the middle of a meal, but dear god, man, he’d just told the entire _family_ he had no _gag reflex._ He stared down at his plate with such intensity that his eyes started burning along with his cheeks.

“You can go,” Talia said, showing mercy Stiles hadn’t been sure she was capable of. 

Stiles shot off, straight to the room he and Scott would be sharing. He threw himself face-first onto the bed. That was a _great_ first impression. 

“Next time you go to the store, can you grab me a new filter? Mine’s got a few holes, I think,” Stiles said in a normal voice. 

Cora’s howling laughter confirmed he was heard. At least she thought he was funny. 

Maybe he was just tired, or mentally exhausted, or both. He couldn’t remember having quite so many slips of the tongue in Beacon Hills, but, damn, was he getting ideas about what he could _do_ with said tongue. 

“Oh my god,” he groaned, pressing his face into a pillow. He had to stop acting like that. He knew, on some level, it was just his way of dealing by emphatically _not dealing_ with everything that had happened. He’d left his dad behind, his home, as crappy as the town was, and had been held prisoner for a few days. It was bound to cause some…weirdness. It was just his luck that weirdness had to spew out all over the hottest guy he’d ever _seen_.

The bedroom door creaked open. “You alright?” Scott asked, closing the door behind him and crossing to the bed. He crawled over the covers and dropped next to Stiles. 

“Yeah, I’m great. I’ll have the quick, painless death with a side of fries, please,” he said into the pillow. When Scott prodded him, he sighed again. “What’s _wrong_ with me, Scotty? I’ve never slipped up like _this_.” That was possibly a lie. He’d never been able to slip up like this around someone quite at Derek’s…level, because—well, because there was no one in Beacon Hills who could compare, to be perfectly honest. 

“You smell normal.” Scott leaned down to sniff at Stiles’s shoulder. 

Stiles swatted playfully at him, rolling toward the edge of the bed. 

Scott growled, pouncing and pinning him to the bed by the shoulders. 

Stiles laughed, twisting to try to gain leverage, which proved to be impossible with Scott’s grip so tight. 

Scott’s growl deepened, lip curling up to show off fangs. His eyes flashed gold, and Stiles froze. It didn’t feel like play anymore, especially since he couldn’t move to get him off. 

“ **Scott.** ” Talia’s voice wasn’t raised but somehow boomed from where she was standing in the open doorway. 

Scott lowered his head but didn’t let go, teeth still bared. 

“Get off him,” Talia commanded. 

Stiles watched in mute shock as Scott slowly let go and climbed off the bed, still growling. 

“You okay, Stiles?” Talia looked at him. 

He nodded, scrambling to sit up. 

“Sorry,” Scott muttered, bolting past Talia, through the door.

She let him go, eyes lingering unreadably on his back as he retreated. She pressed her lips together in thought before she nodded at Stiles and left the room. 

Stiles decided it was a problem for another time and buried his face in the pillow. 

 

He must have fallen asleep, because when he lifted his face, full sunlight streamed through the window. He couldn’t hear anything from the hall, and he couldn’t—after a moment of straining his ears—hear anyone in the living room, either. Panic gripped his heart for a second, the intense terror of abandonment washing over him. He tried to brush it off; it was a huge house, after all, and they were all probably somewhere within it. 

Stiles got off the bed and eased the door open, finding the hall, as expected, empty. That was fine. Nobody was going to hang out in the hallway anyway. 

Boyd’s room was shut, so Stiles assumed he had fallen asleep, too. 

Laura was on the couch with a book when he entered the living room. She looked up briefly, then back at the page she was on. 

“Where is everyone?” he asked in a sleep-roughened voice. He stepped further into the room and peered into the dining room and kitchen, both of which were empty.

“Dad’s with Mom and Derek—they’re doing a rundown of what they found on patrol.” She flipped the book closed on her finger to mark her page. “Scott’s downstairs with Isaac, Erica, and Cora. Boyd’s in his room.” 

“Is Scott alright?” Stiles asked. He couldn’t imagine all the new things Scott had to deal with, the smells, the instincts…the strength, he thought, rubbing his shoulder. 

Laura hummed. “He’s learning, it’ll take time. He’s doing well, though. There hasn’t been any bloodshed.” 

Stiles’s heart skipped a beat. “That’s a possibility?”

Laura grimaced. “Yes. Control just comes with time. With most bitten wolves, it's _when_ , not _if_ they'll lose it. "

Stiles scowled. If she was trying to make him afraid of Scott, she had another thing coming. There was no being afraid of a guy you saw eat a fistful of sand in the third grade to hide contraband candy breath from his mom. Plus, _fuck_ her for assuming he couldn’t hold his own against a wolf; he’d given Deucalion a fight…kind of.

Laura sighed, opening her book again. “That wasn’t meant as an insult.”

“Sure felt like one,” Stiles murmured, glancing toward the hall where the stairs were. “Where’s Batman?”

Laura huffed a laugh. “In his library.” 

Stiles nodded in thanks, heading off to the library. It would be interesting to see what books Peter and Jordan kept and possibly just talk to Jordan a bit since he wasn’t completely comfortable around anyone else yet. 

The library could have been an actual small town library. All Stiles could see when he looked through the open door were bookcases. He counted five along both walls he could see, and at least two double-sided shelves free standing in the center of the room, blocking his sight of the opposite wall. The shelves were packed with books to the point that there were horizontal piles of books crammed in the space between the tops of the books and the shelf above. He was more than impressed. 

“Jordan?” he called, putting a hand on the doorframe but not quite entering. 

Shuffling on the other side of the island bookshelves made him smile. Jordan appeared around the corner, eyebrows raised curiously. 

“Stiles,” he said, motioning for him to come in. “I’m a bit surprised you’re here.” 

Stiles shrugged, eyeing the books. There were a fair few that he recognized. “I work at a library. Didn’t you think I’d be curious to see what you collected?” He winced; maybe he should have said _worked._ Beacon Hills considered him dead. He was likely already being replaced. 

“Most of this is Peter’s,” Jordan admitted. 

Stiles looked at him, winding his way through the tight walkway to see the other side of the room. 

Jordan went the other way, looping back into Stiles’s sight and flopping into a chair at a desk in front of a large window. This side of the room looked almost identical to the other. 

“What do you do in here?” Stiles asked, stopping a safe distance away from the fancy-looking laptop on the desk. 

Jordan looked over at him, understanding and appreciation flashing across his face. “A little of everything.” He clicked a few buttons on the computer, pulling up a fancy-looking program that claimed it was 3D. 

Stiles smiled skeptically, but when Jordan clicked a file within the program, a yard-view of the Argents’ mansion appeared. “Okay, that’s cool,” he said, inching closer when the screen didn’t flicker. 

“Peter gave me details while I was there, I threw this together this morning.” He scooted the chair back, wiggling the mouse. The screen zoomed in on the house and the walls vanished. 

Stiles stared at the same two living rooms, dining room, and kitchen he and Boyd had walked through in their escape.

Jordan grinned, apparently proud of his work. He used the arrow buttons on the keyboard to switch to a basement view. 

“There’s three rooms down there,” he said, positioning the curser over the three marked rooms. He stopped on the one furthest from the stairs. “Liam blew the bars off the window of this one while he was there.” Jordan’s voice lowered sadly. “Talia and I have been talking about using it as a point of entry. The other room, here,” he pointed, “is designed to hold werewolves. Mountain ash-infused walls, locks, windows still barred, and has…equipment to use against them.” 

Stiles squatted next to Jordan, eyes still on the computer. “I didn’t know there was anything other than wolfsbane that can hurt them.”

“Electricity,” Jordan said, tone still low. “You guys weren’t the only ones the Argents have hurt.”

Stiles looked at him. Had one of the Hales been held there? 

Jordan didn’t elaborate. Instead, he moved the view up two floors. “All the bedrooms are up here.” 

Four rooms lined a hall, and a couple smaller ones labeled closet or bathroom. 

“I knew they had fucking toilets,” Stiles growled, glaring at the model home. 

Jordan froze, head tilting to the side like he was considering asking where that came from. He pressed his lips together instead, pointing and saying the names of who was in which room. “Chris, Gerard, Kate, and Peter and Deucalion share.”

“Do they _really_?” Stiles asked, amazed. He couldn’t imagine Peter sharing a room with…anyone, really. 

“No,” Jordan sighed. “Peter refuses and mostly sleeps in the woods.” 

“Why not at your place?” Stiles watched Jordan click through the floors again, then exit the program. 

“That’d have drawn attention.” Jordan opened a different program, one that was password-protected, his fingers flying over the keys too fast for Stiles to catch anything except the ‘87’ at the end. 

He frowned, recognizing the number from the year Jordan had referenced earlier. 

“This shows where the boundary lines Deucalion follows are.” A map Beacon Hills popped up. Thick, red lines traced the town and a few cut straight through. “He broke the patrol up into sections to make it easier to keep track of everyone and where he’s been.”

Stiles stared at the lines, then at a few of the houses. “Why is my house red? And the hospital?” His stomach twisted; he had a bad feeling he already knew the answer. He was right.

“Those are places he’s paying special attention to.” Jordan closed the window. “And places sparks have been found.” 

Stiles couldn’t shake the image of Liam or his mom, both taken, both killed. He inhaled sharply. “What were you talking about earlier, with the claws and alphas?” He shifted his weight, feet starting to go to sleep from how he was sitting. 

“Alphas can grip the back of someone’s neck, dig their claws into the person’s central nervous system, and access their memories. It’s dangerous and painful for the person it’s done to. They can take memories as well as see them.” Jordan stretched his legs and Stiles noticed he wasn’t wearing his brace; he must have taken it off earlier. “Well, there’s also a way to pull the magic out, but that kills the spark. It’s like all the nerves being pulled out of your body. No one survives it.” 

Stiles’s throat closed. So that’s what his mother had gone through. 

Jordan continued, oblivious, “Deucalion then digs his claws into either Gerard or Kate and transfers the magic to them. They can only use the magic for a little while, but for a week, at least, they have access to magic.”

Rage filled Stiles; his ears rang and pounded in time with his heartbeat. His mother was killed so those bastards could play at being sparks? He was going to kill them. His hands shook at his sides until he clenched them. 

Jordan watched him, eyes widening slightly when he realized what he’d said. He turned hastily back to the computer, trying to give Stiles the illusion of privacy. 

“What else you got on there?” Stiles asked, desperate for a topic change. 

The computer screen flicked red dangerously until Stiles stood and took a few steps back, breathing deeply to try and calm himself.

“That’s basically it,” Jordan admitted. “I’ve gathered some information about sparks and magic in general, but Gerard, Kate, and Deucalion are the ones holding us off from taking the land back.” He let out a long breath, running his hands through his hair until it stuck up in blond tufts like a disgruntled baby chick. “We just want to go home, and the Argents want us dead.” 

“Why not just live somewhere else?” Stiles folded his arms across his stomach. It would suck for the people of Beacon Hills to be left with the Argents, but the town was already dying as it was, and the Argents were _already_ in control of the town, so what difference would it make? In theory, without them fighting the Hales, they probably wouldn’t need to kill sparks, though with how power-hungry Gerard and Kate were, Stiles could see them continuing it. 

“Territory is a difficult thing for humans to understand.” Jordan chewed on his bottom lip. “Peter’s tried explaining it to me. It feels like a forever-home, and like I’ve said before, wolves tend to protect those on their land. So we aren’t just trying to get home for us, but for everyone in Beacon Hills, too. That being said, there was a point when Talia tried to just cut ties and go, said it was getting too out of control. Kate followed us and…let’s just say, leaving isn’t an option anymore.” Something flickered behind Jordan’s gaze, a part of the story that wasn’t being told. 

Stiles glanced at the computer even though the layout of the mansion wasn’t pulled up anymore. Someone had been hurt.

“We’ve made some ground.” Jordan tapped a finger lightly on the space bar. “Less sparks are being found. They’re losing momentum.”

“The nemeton’s dying,” Stiles said, the words slipping free without his permission. 

Jordan nodded. “Yes, it is.”

“What happens if it dies?”

“A nemeton creates sparks, gives them magic.” Jordan stared out the window. “It also keeps supernaturals, like werewolves, strong. That nemeton is tied to the Hale pack. If it dies, for a short period of time they’ll get weaker. They won’t be able to heal as fast, senses won’t be as sharp. It won’t be at the point of being _human_ , but it would feel like that to them.” 

“And then they’d be easier to kill?” Stiles guessed. 

Jordan nodded gravely. “Much easier.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine's Day! <3

Nick, Derek, and Talia returned just after lunch. Erica and Isaac were in the process of attacking the dishes with soap and sponges, a feat that caused a lot more bubbles than Stiles thought possible. 

Cora opened two large doors on the entertainment center to reveal a TV and DVD player. After a short squabble between her, Laura, and Isaac, _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_ was shoved into the player. 

Stiles curled up on the couch next to Scott, taking three full seconds to marvel at his friend’s new muscles. He still thought Derek’s were nicer, and lacking in that particular brand of ick that came with bro-ship, but he’d never tell Scott that. The couch dipped next to him; he turned, expecting to see Isaac or Cora sitting there, or even Boyd.

Derek stared back at him. 

_Huh_ , Stiles mused, _I guess I didn’t scare him away._

“Did you find your fantastic beast, Stiles?” Cora teased. 

Any composure Stiles had gathered fled. He cracked a smile, then finally let go and started laughing, his head falling back against the couch. “Why can’t I be the fantastic beast?” he cackled, twisting to smirk at her. His stomach fluttered. When was the last time he’d laughed with anyone but family? He glanced at Scott, almost panicked; he shrugged and smiled back at him. 

The only thing that would make this better was if his dad, Deaton, and Melissa were here. His chest felt tight with sadness; it loosened as he imagined John and Melissa on the couch at home, relaxing. He looked at Derek, a grin still across his face. He’d take the happiness while it lasted. 

Derek didn’t smile back, but he did lift an impressive eyebrow, which Stiles thought was the same thing. 

 

Nick stood up at the end of the movie, claiming that he was going to get started on hamburgers for dinner. 

Erica jumped up to help, announcing that she was going to shred the potatoes into fries. And, Stiles saw with some surprise, she literally meant _shred_ , with claws and triumphant _ha!_ s of victory every time she finished a potato. 

Scott nudged Stiles, jerking his head at the big bag of potatoes at her feet. He searched Stiles’s face for help, flexing his fingers against his thighs.

“Ask, then, man,” Stiles hissed.

Scott shook his head quickly, hands flattening on his lap in resignation.

Stiles twisted around on the couch, kicking Derek’s leg on accident. “Can Scott help, Erica?” he called. “He likes cooking.” He realized, hearing his own loud voice, that he could’ve just spoken normally instead of shouting. He winced. 

Erica looked up, shaking her claws free of potato skin. “Sure, come on.” She motioned him over. 

Scott didn’t move. He just stared at Stiles with a look of ultimate betrayal. 

“Go.” Stiles pushed him playfully with one hand, then more forcefully with two. 

Scott finally stood, glancing back over his shoulder every few steps to glare at him.

Stiles knelt backwards on the couch, arm resting along the back of it. “Look at him go,” he cooed, making Scott flush. 

“Shut up, Stiles,” he muttered, joining Erica at the counter. 

The subsequent mess was one for the record books. Scott had smashed bits of potato up his arms and across his face. 

“Like this,” Erica said patiently. She held her hands up, shifting them slowly into claws.

Scott copied her, but, like the dozen or so times before, he only got through one potato before they shifted back to human. 

“Don’t use your strength,” Erica instructed. “Use the sharp parts of your claws.” 

Scott dropped it before it could join the now mashed potatoes in the pot next to the pan of fries.

“Try thinking potato thoughts,” Stiles suggested. He jerked his arm away when he almost elbowed Derek in the head.

He hadn’t moved out of the Stilinski Danger Zone, but the least Stiles could do was try to keep track of the limbs he could see. Then again, he could’ve moved away, so it was really his own fault if he hit him. Or hit on him. Whichever came first. 

“Why would that help?” Scott scraped the squished bits into the pot, wincing when he noticed a potato skin on his shoulder.

“Well, you’re already become the potato and that’s not working, so thoughts are next.” Stiles fidgeted with the edge of his shirt, smirking at Scott when he rolled his eyes. 

“This is why you’re not allowed in the kitchen when I’m cooking,” Scott muttered. “You’re not funny.”

“I, personally, think I’m hilarious and require no affirmation from you to know it.” He grinned. 

 

Scott managed to successfully shred nine potatoes to Erica’s twenty-something—Stiles had lost count a while ago and only pretended to keep track just to watch Scott make his competitive face. 

Nick gently shooed them both from the kitchen a few minutes later. “If the fries don’t start cooking, they won’t be done in time,” he explained.

Scott washed his hands in the sink, chuckling when Erica bumped playfully against him.

Stiles took a second to marvel at how well they seemed to be fitting in here. Not twenty-four hours later and he already felt lighter. 

Erica bounced around Nick, pulling a glass from one of the cabinets. She held it out questioningly to Scott, then tilted it in Stiles’s direction. “You guys want something to drink?” She tipped it under the faucet.

Scott froze, halfway through nodding, watching in horrified shock as she filled the cup with tap water and drank it.

Erica frowned over the rim at him. “You alright there, Bambi?”

Nick kicked the oven door shut and turned around, lifting his brows at Scott. 

“Dude,” Stiles breathed, awed. He looked over and saw Derek staring at him like he had two heads. “She drank _tap water_ ,” he said for emphasis. “You guys must have stomachs of _steel_.”

“The tap water is safe to drink here,” Jordan said, coming into the room with a book and his cell phone clasped under his arm. 

“What have you been drinking?” Derek demanded, sitting up straighter.

Stiles frowned. He’d had a glass of milk at breakfast, and some sort of fruit juice Cora sprung on him at lunch. “Juice and milk?”

“You need water,” Derek grumbled, shoving himself to his feet. He stomped around the side of the couch and into the kitchen while Stiles watched; he bent and grabbed something from a lower cabinet, but Stiles didn’t see what, because he was focused on more important things. 

Stiles looked at Jordan for help, wondering what he was doing. 

Jordan shrugged and flopped into a recliner. He tapped his phone until it lit up. The brand logo filled the screen. 

“I’m surprised it works with Boyd and me here.” 

Boyd lifted his head from his seat in the recliner next to Jordan’s, looking from the phone to Stiles. “Magic only affects electronics when you’re trying to repress it.” He kicked the footrest up and stretched languidly. “Electricity is the closest thing to magic, so when it needs an outlet that a spark isn’t giving it, it jumps to electronics.” 

“How do you know all that?” Jordan set the phone and book—a journal, actually, Stiles realized—on the armrest, leaning forward interestedly. 

Derek returned before he answered, dropping a reusable water bottle on Stiles’s lap. He handed one to Boyd, too. 

“Deaton,” he said, nodding his thanks at Derek. “He taught me everything.”

Stiles snorted. “Of course Deaton knows all that. He knows everything.” He felt like he could’ve guessed that. He imagined Deaton surrounded by disguised books on magic in his office, wearing his white coat and looking disappointed by the people around him. “And how many sigils does he have?” he teased. “The man probably doesn’t-”

“I’ve seen him use six umbrella spells, but I’ve only seen five actual sigils.”

“ _What?_ ”

Jordan’s head whipped around as he echoed Stiles’s question.

“Supposedly he has six.” Boyd took a sip from the bottle. “He uses one to help people heal faster. I assume the sigil I haven’t seen is in a place similar to yours.” He nodded at Stiles. 

Derek lifted an eyebrow, his gaze traveling slowly over Stiles’s face, neck, and exposed arms, making a flush creep up his cheeks. “Where is yours?”

“That’s for me to know and you to find out on your own,” he quipped, then bit down on his tongue before he could embarrass himself further. 

Laughter burst from the pantry staircase, which probably meant Cora was on her way to join them. 

Jordan’s phone buzzed. He glanced at it, and flicked a finger across it. “Hey, Peter, you’re on speaker,” he said just as Cora opened the door.

She and Isaac came up and hovered around the kitchen table, looking into the living room. 

Nick and Erica stopped what they were doing, too, clearly also listening. 

Stiles wondered if that was a habit that they learned from humans or if they actually did need to listen that hard from only one room away. 

“Everyone there?” Peter’s voice was raspy and Stiles could clearly hear him panting. Had he run somewhere? Was there actually a safe place in Beacon Hills? 

“Almost. I’m not sure where Talia and Laura went.” Jordan glanced around the living room. “They were with me in the library.”

“We’re listening,” Talia called out. 

“Kate and Gerard are pissed.” Peter chuckled dryly. “But that’s to be expected. They don’t, however, suspect me. They think Boyd managed to break both of them out and use a spell to cover their scent.” 

Stiles bristled; rude. He would have totally been able to bust them out on his own. Boyd didn’t even do anything to help with the escape! 

A hand clamped down on his shoulder. He jumped and flailed around, smacking Scott on the arm.

Scott didn’t move his hand.

“You alright?” Jordan asked. He flipped open the journal, patting himself down for a pen. 

Cora reached over and handed him one from the table.

“Peachy,” Peter muttered.

From the frown on Jordan’s face, he sensed bullshit. “What about Deucalion?” He tapped the pen lightly on the edge of the notebook. “Can he sense a bond with Scott?” 

Peter barked out a laugh. “He wouldn’t know a pack bond if it bit him on the ass. He can feel something every now and then but he thinks it’s a residual effect.” 

“Residual effect of what?” Stiles muttered. 

Scott’s grip tensed on his shoulder and Derek shuffled uneasily. “Later,” Scott muttered. 

“Oh, so you all made it then.”

Stiles could swear Peter sounded disappointed. He glared at the phone. He was still a dick.

“You trust me yet, Stiles?” he asked.

“Nope.” He was surprised by his own honesty, actually. “But you’re winning brownie points.” 

Jordan rubbed the pads of his fingers against his eyes, resigned. 

Derek’s shoulders jerked like he was laughing, but when Stiles looked over, his face was blank. 

“How’s Mom?” Scott asked, the fingers digging into Stiles’s shoulder growing sharp.

Stiles gently prodded at them until he released him, muttering an apology.

“Melissa and John are alive. That’s what matters at the moment. Kate, Gerard, and Deucalion haven’t paid them much mind after realizing that’s not where you went.” 

Scott relaxed, but Stiles scowled, because Peter hadn’t answered the question.

“Kate said they had planned on using Stiles and Boyd’s magic to attack the nemeton and raid us. They were going to figure out who to use where after they absorbed their magic.”

Stiles stiffened. He didn’t approve of being used. Or killed. But used _and_ killed was the Argents having their cake and eating it, too. 

“Has anyone else shown as a spark?” Jordan flexed his newly freed ankle.

“No. Deucalion is making twice as many rounds through town now. The magic from Liam has almost worn off. Give me to the end of the week and we might get a rare opportunity to at least get Kate or Gerard taken care of.” 

“What about Chris?” Boyd interjected. “You haven’t mentioned him.” 

“Chris is a pawn,” Peter said. His voice finally sounded normal and he’d stopped panting.

“Your pawn or theirs?” Stiles asked, leaning forward to brace his elbows on his knees. 

“At the moment, mine, and he knows it.” 

“Do you still trust him?” Nick watched the phone with a calculating expression. 

“No,” Peter said slowly, “but he’s winning brownie points.” 

Stiles smiled but tried to hide it against his arm. 

“Be safe,” Talia called over the railing. “Call us back tomorrow, or when you find out anything new.” 

“Because I haven’t been doing _that_ since the beginning,” Peter grumbled, and hung up. 

Jordan looked down at the phone, then at his unused journal, and sighed. “Stresses me out not to be with him, stressed me out to be there. This is ridiculous.” 

“Stresses anyone out to be in Beacon Hills,” Scott said, now practically laying over the back of the couch to be next to Stiles. 

 

Dinner passed in a blur of food and chatter. Cora commented that Scott’s mashed potatoes were nice, and promptly had to dodge a projectile french fry from further up the table. Erica sneered playfully at her. Talia told them both to calm down before Cora could retaliate. 

Stiles helped clear the dishes from the table with Jordan and Boyd to have something to do with his hands. “You ditch the boot, Batman?” He grinned, glancing automatically at Jordan’s still-naked ankle. He took one of the sponges from the stack next to the sink and twitched over to the oven to wipe it down. 

Jordan scowled playfully. “I’m Ironman, not Batman.” He lifted his foot and flexed his ankle, stretching it. “But, yes, my ankle feels almost completely better. And it’s been the estimated amount of time.” He filled the sink with soapy water, preparing to prewash the dishes before loading the dishwasher. “I’m assuming Deaton worked his magic?” He looked at Boyd for confirmation. 

Boyd shrugged and nodded. “Probably. There isn’t much he can’t speed up the healing for.” He took the last of the cups and silverware to the sink. “Is it safe to assume we can practice magic here?”

Stiles looked up from wiping down the stove in time to see Jordan jump a little and frown. Stiles guessed he hadn’t thought of that. 

“I don’t see why not.” Jordan started scrubbing intently at a pan. 

“Of course you can practice magic.”

Stiles flinched and looked over his shoulder; he hadn’t noticed Talia enter the dining room. He swiped at a spill near the front right eye on the stove to give his hands something to do.

Boyd nodded to himself. “Do you have spare keys for the rooms? I noticed the locks weren’t the kind that pop open with a butter knife or a credit card.” 

Stiles flicked his gaze back at Talia, watching as she frowned worriedly. 

“Yes,” she said slowly, “but we don’t typically lock the doors. This has to do with magic?”

“I locked myself out of my room thinking I could pick the lock.” Boyd’s voice sounded perfectly unembarrassed, but he wouldn’t look up as he wiped down the table. “I’ve been trying since lunch.”

Talia smiled. “I’ll get the key.” She swept out of the room.

“Did that hurt your pride?” Stiles grinned. “What would you have done if she didn’t have the key?” He tossed the sponge over Jordan’s shoulder, laughing when it landed perfectly on the edge of the sink. 

“You have no idea,” Boyd grumbled. “And I’d have kept trying to pick it. Slept on the couch if I had to.” 

Jordan snorted. “There’s so many beds in this house, you wouldn’t need to sleep on a couch.” He started loading the dishwasher. “There’s two more guest rooms downstairs.”

Talia returned a minute later with a small silver key that she handed to Boyd. “That’ll open your room.”

“Thank you,” he muttered, accepting it. 

She nodded, pressing down on a smile before she left. 

Stiles prodded at Jordan until he gave him another task; since the counters were all clean, he was handed a broom.

It was dark outside by the time dinner and the dishes were done. Various lights in the house slowly started flickering on as everyone split off into their own rooms. Cora punched Stiles’s arm lightly, ruffled Scott’s hair, and hugged Isaac before wishing everyone goodnight and darting off upstairs. Apparently she never went anywhere at a walk. She was exhausting just to watch. 

Derek followed her shortly after, muttering something that could have been ‘goodnight’ as he shuffled past everyone.

Nick and Talia were the last two awake when Boyd declared he was tired. He gripped the key like a prize in his fist and marched off down the hall; Stiles assumed he was going to give the lock one more try.

He listened as Boyd tried the lock again, and failed again if the loud thump and muffled curse was any indication. He laughed when he heard the snick of the key turning in the lock. 

“I think I’m going to bed, too,” Scott muttered, rising to his feet from the couch.

Nick stood as well.

Stiles watched with fascination as Scott reached out and hugged him. Nick wasn’t family. Scott looked surprised at the reaction, too, but he didn’t let go, and then Nick was hugging him back, not looking fazed at all. 

Talia stepped up to them and briefly joined the hug. 

Wolf thing, Stiles decided. He pushed himself to his feet and distracted himself looking for his left sock that the couch had eaten. The sight of them hugging like that made his heart ache for his dad and Melissa. 

“Let us know if you need anything,” Talia said, rubbing her cheek against Scott’s head before stepping back. 

Scott nodded and disentangled from the hug. He looked at Stiles in confusion and bolted across the room to him like a yo-yo on a string. 

Stiles snorted and slung an arm around his shoulders. “Goodnight,” he said, leading Scott away. He felt them watching as they walked away, but he didn’t look back. 

 

Stiles laid on the bed staring at the ceiling, tapping his fingers against his ribs. Scott had fallen asleep quickly, and he was sprawled across the bed at such an odd angle that Stiles was shoved to the far edge of the mattress. Strange shadows shifted across the room from the trees in the backyard, in all the wrong places, just another reminder that he wasn’t home. Every creak of the house settling made him jump. He turned his face against the pillow, huffing in irritation. 

Like bad thoughts tended to, images of Kate and Gerard started popping up in his head. Each shadow was one of them in the yard, creeping up to dig into his neck and kill him. Each creak or whirl of the heat kicking on was Deucalion prowling through the house, ready to slit Scott’s throat. 

Scott shifted closer to him. The heat radiating off his body pushed him even further away until he literally went off the edge. 

He landed on all fours next to the bed, breathing heavily and glaring at the floor. 

Scott sat bolt upright, growling around a mouthful of fangs, eyes glowing yellow. “You alright?” He leaned over the bed to look down at him. 

“Yeah,” Stiles said, patting himself down. Thankfully he’d missed braining himself on the nightstand. “Go back to sleep. I’m going to use the bathroom.”

Scott nodded, falling backwards. He was probably asleep before he hit the pillows and Stiles wanted to beat him with them. 

Stiles went to the bathroom, stopping in the hall on his way back to the room. The hallway was cooler than the bedroom, so it felt nice to cool off. He looked toward the bedroom door, grimacing in distaste. His _brain_ wasn’t tired, and the idea of trying to force himself to sleep in the overheated bed with Scott while his brain ran in circles was not appealing. 

He looked back toward the living room, then back at the bedroom. He shook his shoulders and went to the living room. 

The couch looked inviting; no one was going to use their butt to push him off the couch, and if he moved too much, no one was going to wake up and grumble at him sadly. He rubbed his jaw and flopped on the couch, sighing. He was tired, for sure, but he felt like the minute he tried to sleep, his brain was going to start doing the rhumba. He grunted and scratched his chest. He wasn’t sure when he’d taken his shirt off; he’d probably shucked it around the time Scott’s body heat started suffocating him. 

The sigil on his hip tingled. He glanced down at it, brows lifted. Maybe that was why he couldn’t sleep no matter how tired he was. He bit his lip. He still didn’t really know how to use it, but it couldn’t be too hard. It was a _part_ of him. 

He closed his eyes, trying to draw on the sigil’s magic. He jerked his head, annoyed, when his first sigil tingled to life. 

The one on his hip tingled again, a faint tickle in response to his summons. He imagined himself giving it a good, hard yank and gasped when the magic shot out of him like a startled cat. It zipped across the floor and to the hall where he’d come from, as if it was retracing his footsteps. He didn’t close his eyes, staring into the dimness of the living room like his plug had been pulled.

Scott was still asleep, he knew suddenly and for no reason. Boyd was sleeping, too; Stiles could feel it now, the magic’s tendrils slipping uncoordinatedly over the floor, like a fawn on ice. 

He felt the tendrils zoom upstairs, knocking into one and making him flinch; Jordan was awake, worrying about Peter as he paced around their room. The magic skidded down the hall to Derek’s room—he was awake, kind of, like he was drifting off but not quite there. Another uncoordinated burst of movement told Stiles that Cora and Nick were asleep, and that Talia was awake, staring at the ceiling with wide, red eyes like she was imagining horrible things. 

Stiles turned his head like a puppet to follow as the magic tumbled down the stairs back to the main floor, then across the living room like a mouse. It flattened down and slithered under the door to the basement, zipping down and bouncing back and forth through the hall, a game of pinball that was draining his energy as quickly as the magic was moving. It flicked to each door, not even stopping long enough for him to tell which room was whose, and then it shot back to him like a rubber band snapping back to its original shape. 

He let out a soft breath as it knocked into his hip, and let himself tip over onto the couch. He was sure no one would mind if he just…rested his eyes. Just long enough to regain some of the energy the magic had sapped from him.


	15. Chapter 15

He wasn’t on the couch. Stiles knew that for sure. He also knew the bed wasn’t soft enough to be the one he’d tried sharing with Scott, either. He cracked an eye open. Bookshelves lined the wall to his right, and a large window took up the wall across from the foot of the bed. He opened both eyes and found that the room was neat and organized, and must have been one of the other guest bedrooms Jordan had mentioned. He burrowed into the blankets and pillow; they smelled nice, like soap and clean hair, which, he reflected, should not have had a smell, but somehow it did. 

He must have dozed off again, because he blinked what felt like seconds later and the sun was in a different position. He stretched, enjoying the heavy comforter. His bladder tensed painfully and he shot out of bed. It was probably better not to test how long he could hold it on a floor of the house that he didn’t know the layout of. He hobbled across the room, easing himself through the door. 

“Huh.” The hallway he stepped into looked the same as upstairs; maybe both floors had the same layout. That would be beneficial to his goal. Stiles shuffled to the door he’d run into Derek in front of, nudging the door open. Success! He bolted in and closed the door securely behind him. He took care of his most pressing business first, only remembering the toothbrush Cora had given him when he was washing his hands. It was still upstairs; he’d have to do the walk of morning breath shame in a few minutes.

He poked back into the hall, wiping his hands on his pants; they slipped down and exposed the black swirl on his hip. He rubbed his thumb over the unfamiliar new mark as he closed the door behind him. 

Another door further down the hall opened; Cora leaned out, staring at him tiredly. Her nostrils flared and her eyebrows flew up as she approached. “Wow, that must be a record, Derek,” she said. She stopped and looked at him pointedly.

“Come again?” he asked.

“I think you’ve probably done enough of that.” She stepped forward, trying to go around him and into the bathroom. 

“Excuse me?!” Stiles _actually_ pressed a hand to his chest like an old woman clutching her pearls. He had no memory of doing _that_. 

“I’m not judging.” She shrugged. “Just thought it was fast.” 

“I’ll have you know that I have the stamina of a college student,” Stiles shot, even while he was thinking, _wait, no, that’s not what I’m supposed to be upset about._

Cora laughed, elbowing him out of the way to get to the bathroom. 

“What floor am I on? What _world_ am I in? Did I slip through the couch and into an alternate dimension last night?” 

She laughed again and shut the door in his face. 

Stiles twisted to look at the room she’d come from. He could have sworn her bedroom was on the second floor yesterday.

He discovered that he was, in fact, on the second floor, when he spotted the stairs going down rather than up. He wandered down them, feeling like the world was on its side while he reoriented himself. By the time he’d reached the fourth step, he’d decided he liked Cora’s sense of humor. He could definitely see himself getting along with her. By the sixth step, he realized he must’ve been in _Derek’s_ room, which explained Cora’s comment. That was cool, he decided, but it would’ve been hot if Derek were in there with him. 

When he stumbled onto the tenth step, he cursed Cora’s name for speaking loud enough for Derek to hear, because _he_ knew for a fact that he hadn’t done anything in the bed, but Derek might not know that. On the twelfth and final step, he ran full force into the man himself. 

“I didn’t do anything in your bed,” Stiles blurted, because no one had bought him a new filter yet. 

Derek’s gaze flicked across Stiles’s bare chest where a flush was spreading, down to the sweats that technically belonged to him, and came to a rest at the top curve of the newest sigil. “Found it,” he said, smirking and ignoring Stiles’s weird little outburst. 

Stiles stared down at his own hip for a second. _That_ was what Derek was going to comment on? “I have two.” He sashayed around him and onto the main floor, feeling Derek’s gaze roving over his back. He imagined that Derek’s face was very cute when he was confused. 

The living room was nearly empty when Stiles crossed through; he didn’t see Erica laying on the couch until she sat up, sniffing conspicuously and squinting at him. He jumped, biting back a yelp. 

“You reek like Derek.” She leaned against the armrest, a lascivious smirk curling her mouth. 

“I hope so, or I was in the wrong bed.” Stiles winked at her and turned in time to catch Scott watching him with a patented ‘confused puppy’ head tilt. He waved a little and slipped down the hall. 

Deep snores echoed from Boyd’s room; he must have really worn himself out from trying to unlock the door. 

Stiles slid into his own room, hesitating at the thought. _His_ room. His guest room. He wished his dad and Melissa were here, of course, but it was kind of nice, not having to be tense all the time. Being able to _relax_ and not worrying about being taken and killed because he let his guard down.

He glanced at the pile of clothes Cora had given him and wondered if they were all Derek’s. He’d have to ask Scott to smell them later. He grabbed a red sweater and a fresh pair of sweatpants. The only other options were jeans and there weren’t any belts. No one had paid for that show. Yet. 

Cora and Isaac had joined Erica on the couch by the time Stiles had gotten dressed and gone back to the main part of the house. They were sprawled over each other in a way that looked like some giant had scooped them up, shook them like dice, and tossed them there. 

Scott growled, followed by a horrendous ripping noise and the splash of something spilling onto the floor. 

Cora floundered upright, nearly tumbling Isaac to the floor while Stiles ran for the kitchen. “You alright, Scott?” she asked.

Stiles looked at the shredded plastic that used to be a milk jug. 

Scott had pieces of it in both hands, which were clawed, and there a few chunks of it floating in the puddle of milk at his feet. A dry bowl of cereal sat untouched on the counter. 

“Did you kill it dead, Scotty?” Stiles reached for the roll of paper towels on the counter. 

Scott panted, claws trembling and clacking against the bits of plastic. “That was a new jug.” His eyes flashed yellow, ducking his head guiltily. 

Stiles put the paper towels down and yanked Scott into a hug. 

Scott squeezed him back, mindful of his claws as he put his arms around him. “I couldn’t get the lid off,” he sighed, rubbing his cheek against Stiles’s shoulder. “Got frustrated. I didn’t mean to.” 

“I figured.” Stiles patted his back and straightened up. “Practice makes perfect. No use crying over spilled—oh.” He laughed, then, when Scott glared, laughed some more. 

Scott released him, shaking his hands as the claws retreated. “Literal spilled milk.” He glowered at the puddle. 

“It’ll be alright,” Isaac said. He was leaning over the back of the couch watching them, his hair matted down on one side like he’d been laying on it. “You should have seen me when I was adjusting. I broke the couch because my shoe wouldn’t come off.” 

“And the bed frame,” Cora chimed in. 

Isaac flushed brilliant red and buried his face in the couch cushion. “That, too,” he mumbled. 

“There’s more milk downstairs in the mini fridge,” Cora said, stretching her arms above her head. “And more in the fridge in the garage.”

Stiles snatched up the paper towel, ready to resume helping Scott clean up the mess. There was a _lot_ of milk, which made sense if it was a fresh jug. 

“We generally have a lot of everything.” Cora rolled off the couch. “We eat a lot. Takes a lot out of us, shifting. Gotta keep our strength up.” She brushed her hands off on her pants. “I’ll go get another one.” 

Stiles’s mood improved further at the idea of food, drawing his attention to the fact that he’d used magic the night before and hadn’t eaten since. Sure, he’d passed out immediately after, but his hands were steady enough, and he hadn’t woken up starving or feeling sleep deprived. Maybe he was getting better. His stomach rolled; his magic was what had gotten his mother killed. 

He reminded himself forcefully that he wasn’t in Beacon Hills; the rules weren’t the same here. 

“Stiles.” Scott’s face was closer to his than he was expecting, making him rear back. He extended a hand for the paper towels. “You okay?” His brows furrowed. “You smell sour and…” he waved his hand, searching for a word. 

“He’s sad and stressed,” Cora announced, flouncing into the kitchen with the fresh jug of milk. Another roll of paper towels was tucked safely under her arm. 

“Thank you, Cora,” Stiles said flatly, crouching to mop up the mess. 

“Why are you sad and tense? I promise we won’t eat you.” Cora joined them on the floor, hooking her foot around the nearby trash can and anchoring it closer to them.

Stiles bit his tongue. It wasn’t Cora’s business, but she had been nice so far. Guilt had him chewing on the inside of his bottom lip. He was saved from answering the question when Boyd’s sleepy voice came from behind them. 

“Are bowls overrated?” He had deep circles under his eyes, which were bloodshot. He hovered next to the counter, watching them with the vague expression of the extremely tired. 

Scott growled warningly; the noise still sounded strange coming from him, more threatening than anything Stiles ever associated with him. 

“Think of this as a lesson in control.” Cora bumped her shoulder to Scott’s. 

Stiles didn’t know if she was referring to control while opening a milk jug or taking a swipe at Boyd, because both seemed equally likely. 

“Just smile and be proud of your first kill.” She snickered and scooped up her sopping paper towels.

Boyd chuffed, stepping around them and the mess to snag a couple apples from a basket of various fruits on the counter. He walked to the couch, hesitating at the edge of it and glancing down at his food.

“You can eat on the couch,” Isaac said, scooting over to make room for him between him and Erica. “We just eat meals at the table.” 

Boyd sat. “You want an apple, Erica?” 

Stiles smiled at the milk-sodden towels in his hand. Smooth, Boyd. Smooth. He glanced back at the couch, grinning. He couldn’t see their faces, but he could see the way Boyd had turned, angled slightly toward Erica like he was hoping she would talk to him. At least he wasn’t the only one struck dumb by the werewolves. 

 

Jordan wandered into the living room around noon. Nick made a variety of sandwiches, with Scott’s assistance, and somehow managed to keep a straight face as Scott mutilated a block of cheese so badly that an art student could’ve passed it off as a project. 

Jordan plucked up a ham and Swiss and slid into a seat at the table. “Thanks,” he said around a bite. 

“You’re welcome,” Scott chirped. He was in a drastically better mood than he’d been in earlier, which was almost comical.

Stiles finished his own sandwich quickly, then sat back with a nod of thanks when Talia came by to collect the dishes. 

“Any word from Peter?” She balanced a stack of plates on her forearm with practiced ease, two cups hooked on her fingers. 

Jordan shook his head and tapped a finger on his phone. The screen lit up, showing the time and date, with no new messages on the display. 

“Well, it’s still early.” Talia carted her armload to the sink. She eyed them with distaste, but it was her turn, according to her rules, to do the dishes. She sighed and twisted the faucet on. 

When Boyd and Scott got up to head into the living room, Stiles followed them. Derek was already sitting on the couch, but Boyd sank into the recliner he’d had before, and Scott flopped on the far end of the couch, sprawling his limbs out like wet noodles, so Stiles sank down next to Derek.

“Could you be any closer?” Derek arched a brow. 

Stiles figured the question wasn’t meant to be an invitation, but he couldn’t resist. “Sure,” he said, and clambered into Derek’s lap. 

Derek’s breath _whooshed_ out of him as Stiles’s elbow knocked into his ribs; Stiles froze, wide-eyed as his brain went _WHAT THE HELL DID YOU JUST DO?!_ He bit his lip and settled down, figuring that he might as well enjoy the moment before Derek eviscerated him. He felt Derek tremble and cringed, waiting for his demise. When it didn’t come, he turned slowly over his shoulder and found Derek laughing, digging the pads of his fingers into his eyes like he was trying to hide. It was the single most adorable thing he’d ever _seen_ , and he’d practically grown up with Scott. 

“I guess you could,” he choked, finally managing to push away the laughter. 

Stiles was a bit disappointed. He waited another minute, half expecting Derek to shove him to the floor, or at least tell him to move, but he didn’t. Stiles relaxed back against him, feeling the soft rise and fall of his breath against his back. 

Derek’s hand settled on his thigh, the touch burning through his pants. “You’re still wearing my clothes,” he breathed, sending chills down Stiles’s arms. 

That was more stimulating than Stiles expected. “Would you rather I be naked?” Stiles shot back, at a normal volume. Well, if they weren’t in the living room in front of everyone, that would be at least halfway to an ideal situation.

“That would make it easier to find your other sigil, at least,” Derek replied, unruffled. 

Stiles swatted a hand at him, managing to hit one of his biceps. It was a nice bicep; solid with the promise of soft skin over it. He knew the guy was built, duh, he’d seen it already. Feeling was a whole different thing, though, mmm. Stiles melted further against him.

“Please keep your clothes on,” Scott whined. He was backed onto the arm of the couch in an attempt to give them more space, his nose wrinkled at whatever scent he was picking up that Stiles couldn’t discern. 

Stiles smiled and rolled his eyes. “F _in_ e.” He still wasn’t giving up his seat, though.

“How’s the new sigil?” Boyd asked, looking equally uncomfortable. 

Stiles was also kind of getting uncomfortable, but now he was determined to stay here just out of spite. He glowered at Boyd; of course he would ask about that. He knew lots of spells, and he seemed to be having little to no trouble learning to use his newest sigil. Stiles, on the other hand, well… “It runs away from me,” he snapped. “I don’t like when magic doesn’t listen. The only time the first one did anything without me telling it to was when I first used it to help Scott.” He gestured widely at Scott, accidentally smacking Derek’s shoulder. He patted him apologetically. 

Scott cringed; Stiles didn’t blame him, since they both still felt guilty for that day. 

“Make it listen.” Boyd watched Stiles carefully, unaware of his and Scott’s shared reaction. 

The wolves in the house weren’t so oblivious if Cora was to be believed; Stiles could practically feel the held-breath tension despite the fact that none of the Hales besides Derek had entered the living room. 

“Easy for you to say,” Stiles said, choosing to solider on. “I’m sure your magic doesn’t run around the house like a thousand hyperactive squirrels on crack trying to find everyone.” 

_That_ elicited a raised eyebrow. “What does it look like? The magic,” he clarified. 

Stiles shrugged. “Silver wisps of, like, pure magic? I dunno. I mostly just feel it.” 

Boyd nodded. “Well, the magic is in _you_ now, so you need to tell it _no_.” 

Stiles scowled, hands twisting in the hem of his shirt. 

“When I curse someone,” Boyd went on, “I can feel a residual magic feeling around them. It’s like an awareness, reminding me that I did…something…to them.” 

Jordan made a noise at the table behind them. 

“When I first started practicing, it would try to return to me and I’d have to tell it _no_ , because if it did, the curse would break. I think that’s where I’m currently struggling with influencing people. The magic is returning too soon.”

It was a weird, but somehow intellectual, approach to _magic_ , so it wasn’t that surprising that it had come from Boyd. “I feel like mine doesn’t always want to return.” Stiles shifted around, only remembering that he was on Derek’s lap when he grunted and adjusted his own position. He recalled the feeling of the magic slamming back into his lap after having explored the dungeon. It felt…curious. “How’s your new sigil?”

Boyd glared. “I don’t want to talk about it.” 

Stiles cracked a smile. Must not be going any better than his own, then. 

Isaac suddenly dropped onto the couch next to Scott, tucking his feet neatly beneath him.

Cora rounded the couch and flopped gracefully into his lap, grinning over at Stiles. “I guess this is how the cool kids are sitting now, huh?”

Derek pressed his thumb hard into Stiles’s thigh, making him jump. 

Loud buzzing drew everyone’s attention back to the dining room. 

Jordan answered his phone. “Hey. Speaker,” he added, poking at the screen. 

“Hey.” Peter’s voice sounded worn, like even the single word had costed him. 

Concern had Stiles rubbing his chest. He didn’t want to care, but he did, because Peter _had_ helped them escape, crappy personality notwithstanding. 

“Gerard’s getting worse,” Peter said after a moment. “He had a seizure yesterday and has been bedridden since. Tests show the cancer has spread to his brain. They’re desperate to find a spark to get him back on his feet.”

“Hopefully he just dies, yeah?” Jordan was trying hard to sound optimistic, but he must’ve noticed how tired Peter sounded, too, must have guessed that the Argents were running him ragged trying to find a new spark.

The breathless laugh on the other end of the line didn’t ease their concerns. “Yes, hopefully,” he murmured. He drew in a long breath. “Kate was talking to a few hunters. She knows something isn’t right with them disappearing.” 

Shivers ran down Stiles’s spine; the idea of Kate hunting for them personally was frightening. 

“You think they’re going to come our way?” Talia asked. She leaned over a chair, bracing her hands on the table. 

“I don’t know what they’ll do. They might just pass by to see if they’re alive. Stay in the house. I don’t have a physical description, as Kate was on the phone,” he said sourly.

“Alright.” Talia glanced around at everyone to make sure they’d heard. 

“Are you alright?” Jordan asked, fiddling with his napkin.

“I’m alive,” Peter said. “Stay alert. Love you.” The phone call ended abruptly. 

Jordan cursed and dropped his head in his hands. The quiet was tense. 

Stiles chewed on his bottom lip. What were they going to do if the hunters did come after them? He wasn’t exactly combat-ready, and Scott was just as likely to kill a shrub for distracting him as he was to fight hunters. As for Boyd, well, the curses took time to work, and hunters usually had guns.

Derek squeezed his leg like he could sense his growing distress, making him relax a little. 

They had allies here, as unlikely and shaky as the alliance felt. Maybe they wouldn’t have to fight them alone if they did come. When magic tingled under his skin, he shoved it back down. He needed to be in charge of it, not the other way around. 

 

Stiles stared up at the ceiling, wide awake and irritable, as usual.

Also as usual, Scott was breathing deeply next to him, blissfully off in dreamland.

Stiles wanted to kick him. He wouldn’t, of course not, but he really wanted to. Just kick him to let out his frustrations, and then maybe he wouldn’t be the only one awake. He sighed and rolled onto his side, clenching his fist in the pillow case under his head. 

After another hour of laying still and only growing more fidgety and frustrated, he rolled out of bed, pausing when his feet hit the floor and the bed squeaked. Magic crept along his skin and left a trail of goosebumps as if a hand had smoothed over his arm. 

Scott didn’t even snuffle when he moved.

He sighed and eased off the bed, creeping out into the hall. He pulled the door shut carefully, hoping he didn’t wake anyone. 

The house was as dark and quiet as the room had been. He padded down the hall, magic thrumming strongly, pulsing in time with his heartbeat. _Are you going to listen now?_ Stiles thought sourly, taking a seat on the edge of the couch. 

It vibrated under his skin; it felt like an agreement, or at least, he was going to take it as one. He sighed and let his head tip back. The sigil on his hip tingled as he let the magic free. He felt the tendrils slide across his body, then creep out over the couch and around the coffee table, curling around like smoke. It bounced playfully toward the stairs, arrowing for the second floor. 

**Stop.** Stiles bit his tongue to keep from saying it out loud.

The magic swung to and fro, hesitanting like it wasn’t sure whether to listen to him or not, like a child testing an adult. 

Stiles gritted his teeth and tried to mimic his father’s tone. _I said **no.**_ The tendrils crept back, sulking like a scolded child. The magic wove together in and out of a complex design that Stiles couldn’t quite grasp. _Come back here._ The sound of paws had him frowning; paws padding across hardwood. 

He looked down and flinched, surprised to find two amber-colored eyes blinking at him. 

The magic had shaped itself into a fox, small and sleek and almost-solid, slinking toward him with its head down. 

That was new. He held his hand out; he jumped and yanked his hand back when he felt something cold bump his palm. 

The fox opened and closed its mouth in a silent yip of excitement, darting in and out of Stiles’s legs. 

He twisted, trying to keep track of where it went; his hold on the magic was slowly slipping. 

The fox, realizing this, bolted back toward the stairs. It ascended them three at a time and darted out of view.

Stiles cursed and tried to rein it in; he could feel it exploring, scenting the different doorways, curious about each room but unable to actually enter any of them. A jolt went through him when it collided with the bathroom door. He stilled, braced in case the noise woke anyone. Which was ridiculous, because obviously magic couldn’t make noise; it wasn’t as if it was a living creature. 

**Come here.** The fox shoved its nose under the door, becoming almost completely flat as it squeezed through the gap. Stiles sighed; he’d have to go retrieve it. He stood and started toward the stairs. His legs felt heavy and clumsy, his feet threatening to tangle with each step. He was going straight to sleep after he caught it. Definitely.

He did not make it to the first step.   
 


	16. Chapter 16

Stiles blinked up at Derek from the bathtub. A sleepy grin slipped over his face; this was definitely a dream he could get behind. Or on top of. Honestly, he wasn’t picky. 

Derek blinked back at him, trying to decipher the smile. 

That just wouldn’t do. Stiles lifted his arms up and out in an invitation, his grin turning kind of goofy. His eyelids slipped closed, dragged by the heavy weight of exhaustion. A strong arm looped around his back and another slipped under his legs. He smiled again as Derek pulled him close to his chest. His head lolled against his shoulder, completely limp. Maybe he could forgive the fox for not listening. This was nice. Maybe the fox knew exactly what he needed. 

The soft give of a bed under him was the next thing he was aware of, which was a pity, since he missed the walk curled up against Derek’s chest. A blanket was tucked around him, until he was snugged in like a burrito. Stiles took a second, or maybe a full minute, gauging time while half asleep was never accurate, to breathe in the scent of the blankets and pillows. Magic prickled along his skin; a groan escaped his lips. He was _tired_ , and comfortable, this was not the time. 

Something next to the bed made him jerk, his heart skipping a beat. He cracked his eyes open. The room was dark, very dark, even with only thin curtains over the window. A triangular, flowing silver face peeked up at him from the edge of the bed. Large ears twitched atop the fox’s head, golden eyes staring at him intently. “ _What?_ ” He tried to say it firmly, but the squeaky breathless sound that came out could hardly be considered _firm._

The fox jumped down, spinning once in a circle and darting toward the door. 

“Are you alright?” Derek cracked the door open. 

The hall light streamed across the floor, burning Stiles’s gritty eyes. 

The fox darted between Derek’s ankles, scenting confusion and concern and passing that information back to Stiles like a little computer. 

Derek seemed completely unaware of the creature, creeping further into the room as if he was compelled forward by the pure power of his concern.

Stiles tried to push himself up; he needed to get the spell under control before it drained him into a coma…if that was possible. It certainly felt like it at the moment. Could magic use kill him? He’d have to ask Boyd.

“You need to rest.” Derek put a hand on his shoulder, steadying him and simultaneously keeping him in place.

Stiles swatted weakly at him. “You let it out,” he mumbled. 

Derek frowned, lowering himself until he was eye level with Stiles on the edge of the bed. “Let what out?” His voice was gentle, like he thought Stiles had lost his mind. 

The fox stirred. It felt like it was in the room, which was odd because…it wasn’t. Derek’s face grew fuzzy, swaying like a pendulum in and out of focus. The magic was flowing down the stairs, almost to the main floor. Other people were awake, the fox could smell them. 

Talia and Nick were in the kitchen, paused standing next to the counter like they’d been interrupted mid-conversation. 

Paws padded silently across the main floor, trotting into the living room, then around the corner to the hallway where the guest rooms were. 

The guest bathroom opened up and Scot shuffled into the hallway, toward their shared bedroom. He frowned, sleepy and confused, and peered around the door. “Stiles?” he called softly.

Stiles jumped, the pressure of Derek’s hand on his shoulder giving him stability. A dull orange glow illuminated his lap and the floor. Why were Derek’s eyes glowing? He frowned. He could’ve sworn Derek’s eyes glowed yellow, not orange. With an effort, he lifted his gaze to Derek’s. Huh. His eyes weren’t glowing at all. 

“Get Boyd,” he growled. 

He was _worried_ , Stiles realized. The magic surged, yanking Stiles’s attention back to it—into it. 

Talia swept from the kitchen and down the hall. 

His heart raced as it seemed she was bearing down on him. He recoiled and the magic zoomed to the back door, collapsing into silver wisps that seeped through the cracks around the door, regrouping to its original form in the yard. The air was cold, but Stiles only felt it in his mind, in the way that people knew it was cold out just by looking out a window. 

Stiles tried to pull the fox back, the magic back, but all that happened was he unraveled the sticky tendrils of his own mind from the spell, so that it was still draining his energy but he had no control and less insight. He let himself get pulled back and went along for the ride, running through the trees. 

It was strange; it felt like _he_ was the one running, except no twigs snapped, no leaves shifted, nothing was disturbed. He wasn’t a panting gross mess, either; he could get used to this kind of cardio. 

The hair on the back of Stiles’s neck rose, his skin tingling with awareness. Someone was in the woods, someone who should not have been was nearing the house. A scent filtered through the fox and to Stiles’s brain, something like apple spice; he followed it, weaving in and out of the trees like he’d been born with four legs instead of two. The scent intensified. He skidded into a dry creek bed, forgetting that he was not actually there, and looked around. A second scent assaulted his senses. A second person? His—its—their noses twitched. No, a plant. It smelled…purple? He bolted off again, jumping out of the creek and running on. 

A tree with a child’s play house in it came into view, rising in front of him like an apparition. The house was old, the only parts left standing the floor and one wall. There was a person up there. 

“ _Stiles._ ” 

The tree faded, colors dulling, details of the bark and branches bleeding together like water splashed on a painting. Stiles whined, high pitched and breathy, and strained forward; just a few more steps and he could see the person in the tree. 

Blackness dripped into his vision like ink, clearing up to show Talia’s worried face hovering over his, beside Derek, with Boyd right behind them. 

The magic struggled to go on, straining away from him and sapping even more of his already limited energy; the woman in the treehouse shifted, a _click-click_ sound making him flinch. Gunpowder and purple bullets seemed to flash in front of his woozy eyes, shimmering in front of the worried faces above him. 

“ **Stiles, look at me.** ” Talia’s voice dragged him back further; the orange glow dancing around the room flickered with her order. 

The person, the woman, in the treehouse looked at the fox, now separate enough that Stiles could tell himself from the magic. A breeze carried her scent to him, _Deucalion_ flickering through his brain though he had no point of reference to compare it to. Her eyes flashed red, and Stiles slammed fully back into his own body, jerking. He almost toppled off the edge of the bed, a small entourage of people gathered around him. 

Talia, Derek, and Boyd stood across from him, and Scott was at his back; there were more people spilling into the hall, leaning in though they’d likely been told to wait out there. 

“Stiles, can you hear me?” Talia asked, drawing his attention back to her. 

He gripped the edge of the bed, heart pounding like he’d actually run through the woods. “She has a gun,” he breathed, so low he was scared he’d have to try to repeat himself. He looked at Derek, then back to Talia. 

“Who has a gun?” Talia kept her voice calm, but her face had tensed. 

The woman was coming for them. Deucalion had sent her, Stiles knew it. But why would an alpha need a gun? Why were the bullets purple?

“Stiles, who has a gun?” Talia repeated with an edge to her voice. 

“There’s…” He took a deep breath, forcing his voice louder. His throat felt scratchy and his head was throbbing; it was a huge effort to keep himself upright. “There’s a woman in a tree house out there, an alpha. She has a gun.” He looked at the blanket, forcing himself to recall the details. They all seemed faded now, borrowed memories. “Straight across the yard, into the forest, there’s a dry creek, and past that an old tree house.” His voice grew stronger with each word. “She smells like Deucalion and has a gun with purple flower bullets.” Okay, that last bit sounded insane, especially with the way he was slurring due to exhaustion, but Talia stood, staring down at him.

“How do you know this?” Before Stiles could answer, she looked toward the door. “Nick, Laura, go check it out. Don’t pass the creek. I’ll catch up.” She looked back at Stiles. 

“I saw it.” Stiles flexed his fingers into the mattress. “The fox…the spell…” He banged the heel of his palm clumsily off the sigil on his hip. “It showed me.”

Talia lifted an eyebrow in reminiscence of Derek’s favorite expression—or maybe Derek had been mimicking her. She stood and left the room. 

Scott scooted closer to him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. “Dude,” he said, hugging him. “Your eyes were glowing.” 

Boyd moved to sit at the foot of the bed, watching Stiles carefully. 

Derek straightened. “I’ll be right back.”

Stiles turned his head, watching him leave the room with dazed eyes. 

“What happened?” Erica asked from the hallway. “Should we go check it out, too?”

“We wait for orders,” Derek said, his footsteps fading as he moved further away. 

“You really did magic?” Isaac’s face appeared in the doorway as he leaned in. 

Stiles let his head drop into his hands; it was really starting to hurt now.

Scott rubbed his back comfortingly. 

“Yeah,” he mumbled.

“Cool.”

Stiles chuckled weakly; his palms felt sticky and it took him a second to realize his face was covered in sweat. 

A window shattered with a deafening bang that echoed through the house. 

Scott dragged Stiles to the floor by the back of his neck, pinning him to the carpet. 

He covered his head with his arms and looked to see Boyd and Isaac were on the floor as well; Isaac’s eyes gleamed with a dangerous, animal sort of expression that Stiles instinctively shied away from. He didn’t look like the scared boy he’d gone to school with anymore. 

“In the hallway!” Cora shouted. She grabbed Boyd and hauled him out.

Scott grabbed Stiles around the waist and carried him out, shielding him from the window like a fainted Victorian maiden. Stiles was too exhausted to protest. 

“It’s wolfsbane,” Cora gasped, slamming the door behind them. She had her other hand tight around Isaac’s wrist as Erica hovered behind their shoulders with a manic expression on her face. “Scott, don’t get shot. You won’t heal quickly.” 

Derek _roared_ downstairs, a sound of pure rage, so furious that Stiles couldn’t tell if he was in pain or not. More roars and snarls echoed in from outside. 

Stiles wobbled when Scott set him on his feet, tipping forward and grabbing the railing that overlooked the foyer to steady himself. He saw the front door blow open, followed by rapid gunfire. Stiles’s heart jerked unsteadily in his chest; had the woman in the tree been a decoy? Had he sent them off on a wild goose chase and left the house open to attack?

Cora bolted down the stairs, flying down them and out of sight. 

Stiles heard the loud slam of a body against a wall. 

Isaac and Erica shot off after her, shouting at Stiles, Scott, and Boyd to stay put. 

Stiles figured he was more likely to fall down the stairs and break his own neck than help them, so he was happy to oblige.

Derek’s next roar blasted from the kitchen, punctuated by the bang and clatter of pots and pans toppling to the floor.

Stiles squeezed his grip around the banister, swore, and hurled himself toward the steps. They needed help, and he couldn’t just stand there and watch. He navigated the stairs with all the grace of a newborn foal, staying hunched low and hugging the wall. He’d like to say that was a strategic choice, but his knees were practically knocking together in exhaustion. 

Isaac was wrestling with a woman, trying to pry a gun from her hands; it looked, for a moment, like she was going to shoot him in the eye, but he threw his weight forward and slammed her into the wall, twice, until her grip on the gun slackened. He snarled and snapped his jaws in her face, making her cringe against the wall.

Cora had her claws dug into the collarbone of a middle-aged man, her mouth stained with blood as she pinned him to the floor. Just beyond her, Erica was fighting with a woman probably twice her age; she darted in fast, snarling and flashing her eyes. In the moment of shock, she swiped the gun from the woman’s grasp, sending it skidding across the floor to the living room. 

Stiles saw his chance and bolted down, snatching it up. He dodged between Erica and Cora, keeping his head low between his shoulders instinctively. He ran for the kitchen and pulled up short as Derek tripped in his path, snarling viciously.

Derek turned and shoved him, palm flat to his chest, and spun back to the man he was fighting. The back of his neck was bleeding where he’d given the man an opening in order to push Stiles away, but he gave as good as he got, lunging forward and slashing at the man’s chest. Flesh and cloth split open with a deluge of bright red. 

The man gurgled and stumbled back a step; his shaking hand lifted as he leveled a gun at Derek’s chest. 

Stiles whipped up the gun he’d grabbed on instinct, mouthing a silent curse as the man noticed him and shifted his aim slightly.

Derek surged forward in a purely lupine movement, knocking the gun aside with an elbow at the same time he got his hands around the man’s head. He twisted and cracked his neck, the sound like a branch snapping. 

Stiles’s stomach churned at the sound, dropping his arm back to his side. He blew out a relieved breath and got yanked around by a large hand on his bicep. He threw his arms out to catch himself, knocking something flying on his way down. He hit the floor with a painful thud, crying out as every bruise, new and old, throbbed with the collision. 

Derek lurched forward to help, but pulled back as yet another attacker intercepted him. 

How many of them _were_ there? 

The man who’d thrown Stiles to the floor stepped on his arm, pinning him and then straddling him. He had a busted lip and grinned at Stiles when their gazes met.

He jerked his legs, trying to throw him off; the butt of a gun slammed across his cheek, dazing him. He flexed his fingers against the floor. He must’ve dropped the gun he’d grabbed, probably when he’d fallen. 

A hand curled around his throat, each finger pressing in bruising tight, and the barrel of the gun pressed against his temple. The hand began to squeeze.

He fumbled at the fingers, gaping soundlessly as the man squeezed tighter, leaning his weight forward. He’d either crush his throat or strangle him at this point. Spots danced in his vision as his lungs burned. He kicked his legs, banging his heels against the floor as desperation raced through his brain, which was sending out _fight!!!_ signals. He dug his nails into the back of the hand killing him, kicking his legs and slamming his other hand around as he searched for a weapon. 

He shifted his grip up to the man’s wrist, vision blurring and clearing in pulses; he could sense the soft current of oxygen flowing beneath his skin, deep in his veins. His sigil tingled, making his eyes go wide; he pulled at the oxygen, yanking it from his attacker’s lungs, from his veins, out through his skin and into Stiles’s deprived body. 

The man paled rapidly, the thin skin beneath his eyes going dark; his lips went light blue as his grip went loose on Stiles’s throat.

Stiles “breathed” the stale air and let his head drop back, finally able to pull his hand off his throat. He gasped, feeling and hearing the man’s lungs creak as they collapsed. He slumped forward, gurgling as blood bubbled from his nose and mouth. Stiles, too weak to get him off, turned his head away, breathing harshly and squeezing his eyes shut.

Derek grabbed the man’s shirt and tossed him aside, kneeling beside Stiles. He tapped his cheek until he had his attention. He still looked fierce, blood spattering his face and shirt, but he was gentle as he helped Stiles sit up. 

Stiles let himself lean against him, his lungs aching as he caught his breath. He was shaking hard, the world jerking around him except Derek, steady and warm at his side. He let his head lower onto Derek’s shoulder.

A gun cocked behind them.

Stiles’s spine stiffened.

A woman stood beside the couch, her gun pointed in their direction. She flicked it from Stiles to Derek and back, like she couldn’t decide who to shoot first. She smiled when she saw Derek tense every time it turned on Stiles, like she thought it was funny to see him flinch. 

“Put the gun down,” Boyd said, creeping up behind her. When had he come downstairs? Had Scott come down, too? Was he somewhere in the mess?

Derek looped his arms around Stiles, ready to yank him behind the wall and out of her line of vision; Stiles tensed in response. He couldn’t leave Scott unprotected.

The woman swung around to aim at Boyd, a snarl curling her lips. “And just who the fuck do you think _you_ are?”

Boyd’s hand landed on her shoulder gently. “Put it down.” 

The woman started to snap again, but her eyes glazed over before she could, her hand lowering a half inch first, then all the way. The gun clattered to the floor. 

“Sit,” Boyd instructed. He kicked the gun away, toward Erica, who snatched it up. 

The woman sat down obediently on the armrest, staring up at Boyd. The glazed look faded from her eyes slightly. “What the fuck?” she asked stiffly, as if moving her mouth against his orders was costing her a great effort. 

Stiles took a deep, shaking breath. It sounded like the fight was over, either due to the pure shock of Boyd using Jedi mind tricks on the bad guys, or because they’d won. 

“Keep her there, Boyd,” Derek ordered, helping Stiles to his feet. 

He stumbled a few steps backwards, catching himself between Derek and the stove, still cluttered with the last cooked meal. 

Down the hall, someone stepped around the busted front door with a crunch of shoe on debris. 

Derek’s growl stopped in his throat. 

Boyd stepped away from the couch to peer down the entry way.

“It’s Jordan,” Derek said, hesitantly stepping forward as if he didn’t want to leave Stiles unguarded. 

“What happened?” Jordan gasped, lurching into their line of sight. He had two cardboard cup holders full of Starbucks cups balanced in his arms. His eyes were round in shock and horror. “I swear I was only gone like twenty minutes.”

Boyd let slip a nervous chuckle. “Could have used your help twenty minutes ago.” 

The woman on the couch threw herself away from Boyd’s controlling hand and jumped over the back of the couch, running at Jordan, whose arms were still full.

Stiles snatched the closest thing at hand and swung it like a baseball bat at the back of her head. It smacked with a loud _twang!_ that echoed damningly in the silence. 

The woman went down hard and Stiles was left holding the frying pan in stunned silence.

Jordan blinked at him, then down at the stranger at his feet. 

Derek turned. 

Stiles clenched his hand around the handle of the pan. He was breathing hard, though he’d done nothing more than swing, and he was starting to shake again.

The woman was definitely down for the count. Maybe dead. Dying. Head wounds were sort of serious. 

Warm, steady fingers wrapped around his, gently prying his death grip from the pan. He looked up at Derek in momentary confusion, then let go. 

Derek put the pan in the sink. 

“Here.” Jordan pressed the drinks into Boyd’s arms and charged through the pantry staircase. 

Before Stiles could form the words to ask where he was going, he was running back up the stairs, a sturdy rope in his hands. 

With practiced ease, Jordan bound the woman’s ankles and wrists, his hands deft and quick enough that Stiles’s brows rose. He’d just finished when movement outside the backdoor made Stiles jump and spin around.

Talia, Nick, and Laura stomped in through the sliding glass door that had somehow, despite the exploding projectiles and flying bodies, made it through unscathed. Nick looked grim, Laura looked infuriated to the point of frothing, and Talia looked like vengeance was imminent. 

“Kali got away,” she said before any of them could ask. Her dark eyes flicked to the woman on the floor. She scented the air, then frowned at Jordan. “What did you do to her?”

Jordan sputtered out a laugh. “That was all Rapunzel over there.” He nodded at Stiles. 

Stiles scowled at him. 

“I guess we only need one of them for questioning anyway,” Laura growled, flopping on the couch. 

Erica, Cora, Isaac, and Scott trickled into the living room, each covered in blood spatter and rapidly healing cuts and bruises.

“Nick, Cora, take her downstairs and lock her in a room, please. Make sure she’s completely unarmed.” 

Nick and Cora stepped up to the body. Nick waved Cora back as he slung her over his shoulder. “You just get the doors, kiddo.” 

She obliged, swinging open the doorway to the staircase. 

“I’ll start cleaning up,” Isaac said, looking at the wreckage. He wiped blood from his nose onto his shirt, adding to the mess. 

“I’ll help.” Jordan took one of the cups from the drinks still in Boyd’s hands. “I got everyone something.” He gestured at them, urging them to get a cup.

Boyd shuffled forward to set them on the table, which wobbled dangerously; one of the legs had been shot. It wasn’t broken, but it was uneven. “Who’s Kali?” He looked at Talia. 

Laura rolled off the couch to help Isaac and Jordan, muttering something about having just fixed the last round of bullet holes in the walls. 

Derek wrapped an arm protectively around Stiles’s waist when he tried to step forward to help. A low growl came from his throat until Stiles went still. 

“Kali used to be…friends…with Deucalion,” Jordan replied, standing a lamp up. He frowned when it tipped back over, then looked under it and pulled a piece of wood out from the stand. He flicked a quick glance at Talia. “They’re friends again?”

“I don’t think so,” she replied. “But she’s clearly working with the Argents. All the hunters were using weapons that the Argents modified.” 

“How’d she escape?” Stiles asked, pushing at Derek’s hands so he would loosen his grip; he did, but only just. 

Laura heaved an annoyed sigh, holding up a broken piece of the coffee table. “There were a few hunters on the ground around the tree house. They kept us busy while she ran off. They used a nasty smoke bomb with wolfsbane in it that fucked our senses up. We couldn’t tail her even after they were dead. Snake,” she spat. 

“Will she go to the Argents and Deucalion?” Boyd asked. He’d moved to the kitchen to put the dirty dishes from the stovetop to the sink, probably for something to do.

“Hopefully she’ll run into Peter first, so he can relay a fake message.” Jordan pulled a roll of heavy duty garbage bags from somewhere and started passing them out.

“You seem so calm!” Stiles blurted. Everyone turned to him. “Your home was just attacked. You’re—you just. You’re all so. Calm.” 

“This isn’t the first time, Stiles,” Talia said evenly. “And until the Argents are dead, it won’t be the last.” 

“We’ll have to wait for Peter to call.” Jordan cleared his throat and stepped out of sight.

Stiles listened to him fixing crooked pictures on the wall in the hallway. 

He sighed. “Talia, we’re going to need more bleach.” 

 

They all cleaned—except Stiles, who tried to bend and pick up a chunk of drywall and kept going until he’d tipped right onto the floor; Derek had bullied him into an unbroken chair and then sat on his feet after that—while they waited for Peter to call. The first thing the werewolves did was move the bodies outside; except Scott, who watched with mute horror as they moved them like they were broken furniture, and Derek, who was determined to keep Stiles from helping. 

After the bodies were cleared, Nick was in charge of keeping an ear on the prisoner in case she woke up, and Scott was tasked with scrubbing the bloodstained walls with Boyd’s help. Laura began patching the bullet holes in the wall using tools that had seen better days. Cora hammered sheets of wood over broken windows, singing quietly under her breath, and Talia swept up glass and other debris.

By noon, Peter still hadn’t called. Jordan fixed the front door to give himself something to do, Isaac collected weapons, and, once all the debris had been cleaned up, Talia began moving the bodies to the woods for burning.

“Don’t move,” Derek ordered, and went to get the vacuum. 

The house was clean, and Peter hadn’t called. 

“Maybe Kali isn’t in Beacon Hills yet,” Cora suggested, trying and failing to sound optimistic. She tapped the hammer she’d been using nervously against her open palm, looking to her mother and older siblings for reassurance. 

“Unlikely,” Talia muttered, squashing any hope they may have been harboring. “She should have arrived hours ago. It’s only a four hour drive, and a four and a half hour run.” 

Stiles frowned; the drive had felt much longer than four hours.

“Maybe she made a detour?” Boyd asked, leaning against the counter. He looked as tired as Stiles felt as he watched everyone gather at the kitchen table, which was still a little lopsided. 

Derek finished vacuuming and came to stand behind Stiles’s chair, resting a warm hand on his shoulder like a reassurance. Stiles wasn’t sure if it was for his sake or Derek’s. 

“It’s not likely, but not impossible.” Nick rubbed his face. “The smoke bomb hit her, too.” He braced his elbows on the table, pressing his lips into his thumbs. 

Jordan pushed a button on his phone to wake the screen, sighing heavily when there were no new messages. 

Stiles leaned back and felt Derek’s solid presence at his back, not quite flush, but close enough to warm him even through the chair. 

Across the table, Scott smiled at him. 

Peter would call. He had to call. He’d want to check in on Jordan at least, his nieces and nephew, his sister. 

 

It was ten pm and Peter hadn’t called.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *enter Jordan, 20 minutes late with Starbucks*


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Celebratory posting! Finished typing and mostly finished being beta read! I'll be posting a chapter a day until it's done, now! Enjoy! Let me know what you think!

Every light in the house was on. It was past midnight, but no one had gone to bed, not even Stiles. Talia paced the length of the kitchen, lips twitching every so often, hands shifted into claws. 

Nick stood by the counter, human fingers digging into the marble. Other than tracking Talia’s movement with his eyes, his nerves seemed to show in preternatural stillness. “I’ll question her when she wakes up,” he said after a moment. Only the muffled sound of his voice indicated that his fangs were out. 

“She needs to wake up _now_ ,” Cora snapped, prowling around the couch where Erica, Boyd, Scott, Derek, and Stiles were crammed. “Uncle Peter could be headed into a trap.” 

Jordan made a wounded sound, burying his face in Peter’s blanket where he was curled up with it on the recliner.

Derek reached out and poked the phone on the coffee table; the screen was still blank. He sat back and turned, curving his body around Stiles where he was curled up in the corner of the couch. 

Normally, it would be nice, but Stiles was fighting so hard to keep his eyes open that he didn’t have the energy to appreciate it. Derek was probably keeping Stiles from tipping over like a top-heavy sack of flour anyway. 

Talia snarled, her typically calm demeanor cracking. She whirled away and began pacing faster. 

Isaac reached out from his seat on the other recliner and caught Cora’s hand, pulling her toward him. 

She obliged, falling into his lap. She lasted three seconds before she jumped back up and started pacing again. 

“She’s awake.” Laura hurtled into the living room from the second floor; Stiles wasn’t sure how she’d heard first. 

All of the wolves stilled in one motion that would have been kind of cool to see otherwise. At the moment, it was just ominous. 

Nick pushed himself away from the counter and headed downstairs with Talia and Laura on his heels. 

Cora stepped after them, but Laura snapped at her to stay upstairs and pulled the door shut. 

Derek put his arm protectively in front of Stiles, keeping him upright. 

Cora growled at the closed door and stalked away. 

Stiles watched her pace for a moment, then asked, “Can you hear them?” He glanced at Derek, who looked anxious. 

“Parts.” Derek frowned. 

Jordan lifted his head from the nest he’d made, lips pressed tightly together. 

“I can’t make out what Mom’s saying,” Cora grumbled, returning to sit in Isaac’s lap. She perched on his knees, leaning forward like she might leap up in a second. 

Derek started absentmindedly rubbing circles into Stiles’s side; it seemed more for his own comfort than Stiles’s. 

The room rang with silence so absolute that it felt like it was slowly suffocating them. Boyd leaned forward to look at Stiles, his expression confused and concerned.

The walls rattled, shattering the silence, and a growl echoed from below. 

Stiles’s fingers locked around Derek’s wrist anxiously. 

“Mom.” Cora popped to her feet like a toothy jack-in-the-box. 

The door to the basement blew open, slamming against the wall, hinges cracking violently. 

“What happened?!” Cora looked small facing Talia with her red-eyes and fangs.

Derek stiffened; Stiles thought that he might’ve jumped up, too, if his arm wasn’t pinned behind Stiles and he didn’t think he would knock Stiles right to the floor. 

Stiles’s heart skipped at the sight of Talia: she looked ferocious, a low growl coming from her throat like an idling engine. 

She composed herself and stalked into the living room, pulling a hand through her hair. 

A pained howl reverberated up the stairs. Derek breathed, “Laura,” sounding afraid. 

Scott shot Stiles a wide eyed glance. 

Stiles shook his head. He didn’t know what would make them act this way. Maybe Peter was already dead. His heart clenched. He may not like the man, but he knew what it was like to lose a loved one. 

“Mom?” Derek asked in a small voice.

Laura and Nick emerged from the staircase; Nick pushed the door closed behind them. 

“No one go downstairs. Isaac, Erica, you’re sleeping up here.” Talia’s voice shook as she continued to fight for control.

“Is Peter alive?” Jordan asked weakly. 

“He’s alive.” Talia looked at him with mingled concern and pity. “But the Argents have taken him into custody.”

Jordan’s face crumbled, but no tears fell. “He’s as good as dead, then.” He pressed his fist into his mouth, biting down on his knuckle. 

“Can’t he escape?” Stiles asked, glancing around. “He got us out.” 

“They have a room designated for werewolves.” Derek cringed. “He won’t be able to escape from there.” 

“How do you know?” Stiles demanded, twisting to face him. “He seems pretty strong.”

“Because it took both him _and_ Laura to get me out of that room.” Derek’s eyes flashed; Stiles recoiled, pressing into the couch to put distance between them. Derek closed his eyes, forcing himself to relax. He muttered, “Sorry,” a second later.

Laura sighed harshly, sitting on the floor beside the couch. 

“So, we’re going to get him out,” Boyd said, drawing everyone’s attention. “I think we should do it quickly, before they can heighten security.” 

Stiles didn’t miss the glimmer of hope on Jordan, Derek, and Cora’s faces. 

“No,” Talia said flatly. 

Jordan sunk beneath the blankets. 

“Deucalion will be able to gain our whereabouts from Peter’s memories, and Gerard will gain strength from a werewolf just like he does with sparks. If we go after him, we are playing directly into their hands.” 

“We can’t just sit here and let them kill him,” Boyd said reasonably. 

Jordan whined. 

Talia growled in warning. 

Boyd’s jaw snapped closed with an audible click. 

“He knew what he was getting into,” Nick said, more calmly than Talia. “He was the one who set the rules. If he got caught, he would stay behind.” He ran a hand over his face. “Since they have him, we have to relocate.” He shot Jordan a sympathetic look.

Jordan was probably the one who had to find a new location. 

Talia leaned against the counter, her expression anguished and furious, like she’d like nothing more than to storm Beacon Hills herself and rip the Argents apart one by one.

“Talia,” Jordan said quietly. 

“He’s my brother,” Talia said through her teeth. “I’m not keen on leaving him behind either, but this was his plan.” 

Stiles liked the idea of her getting physical revenge on the Argents; it would probably only scare the people of Beacon Hills even more, though. Thrown from a tyrant to a pack of werewolves they’d only heard bad things about as the streets ran with blood. 

“Give me a day.” Jordan’s voice cracked. He pressed his fingers into his eyes. “Two at the most to run statistics and see how close we’d be to Argent allies.” 

Talia swallowed and nodded. “Thank you, Jordan.” 

Stiles leaned back again, resting his head on Derek’s shoulder. The Argents had already done such a number on the Hales. He tried not to imagine Derek kept locked away in a room in the basement dungeon, like he and Boyd had been. He bit his lip, thinking about what they could be doing to Peter. His heart ached. It could be exactly what his mother had gone through, and Liam, and what Peter had saved Boyd and Stiles from. 

“Since we’re leaving anyway,” Boyd began, “do you think Stiles and I could explore the woods?”

Stiles straightened, leaning forward to shoot Boyd an inquisitive look.

Talia squinted at him, then Stiles. 

Boyd flicked a very brief glance in Stiles’s direction before looking back at Talia. 

“You want to go hiking in the middle of the night?” Laura demanded, frowning.

“I’ve heard of weirder,” Isaac said.

Derek’s muscles flexed, like a little flinch. 

“No,” Talia said firmly. “Absolutely not. No one is leaving the house. There could be other hunters nearby.” 

Stiles’s heard sped up. Night hiking. Boyd was going after Peter. 

The uptick in his pulse didn’t go unnoticed by the pack. “What’s wrong?” Derek murmured.

Stiles shook his head, patting his knee absently. How the hell did Boyd plan on getting out of a house of human lie detectors? 

Scott’s brow furrowed, maybe catching the phrase and the heartbeat. He caught Stiles’s gaze. 

Stiles gave the smallest shake of his head.

Scott understood, thank the _gods_ , and didn’t say a word.

“Why would you mention hiking now?” Talia asked sharply.

“Maybe I’m just tired.” Boyd shrugged. Broad truths. He was good at that. “It’s been a long night.”

Talia sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Yes, it has.”

Erica yawned from her seat next to Boyd, blinking slowly. 

“I think I’m going to lay down. I probably won’t be able to _sleep_ , but I’m going to try. Sounds like we’re going to have a long couple days.” Boyd stood, using Derek’s knee for leverage to stand, carefully avoiding making contact with Stiles.

Talia nodded. “That doesn’t sound like a bad idea. Why don’t you all try to get some sleep?” 

Boyd bobbed his head, patting Isaac on the shoulder comfortingly as he passed. He brushed against Cora while he was there, ducking when she swatted at him. He hesitated when he approached Talia and Nick, uncertainty spreading across his face. 

“It’s going to be alright,” Talia said, pulling Boyd into a hug. 

Stiles narrowed his eyes at the back of Boyd’s head as he hugged her back. That man never even hugged Deaton in public. What was he…

Nick hugged Boyd next, rubbing a hand over his head like he’d done to Scott, like he was scenting a pack member. 

Laura stood, bumping up against him in her own expression of affection or comfort. “I’m going to bed, too,” she mumbled, stumbling around them toward the stairs. 

Stiles watched her go, then felt Derek’s head tip onto his shoulder gently. When he looked, Derek’s eyes were still open, but hazy, like he was dozing. 

Cora, Isaac, and Erica were the first to fall asleep; it was like watching a fairytale curse spread through the house. Isaac’s head rolled to his shoulder, eyes closing, and Cora flopped forward onto his chest, curling up and shutting her eyes. Erica slid sideways on the couch, one fist clenched under her cheek like she was prepared to fight even in her sleep. 

Nick sunk to the floor where he stood, and Talia stumbled to the dining table, bracing herself on the edge before slipping into one of the chairs. She blinked blearily, like she was surprised at her own exhaustion, and rested her head on her folded arms. 

Scott and Jordan were the only two left, aside from Stiles and Boyd. 

“Thank you,” Jordan said, realizing what Boyd had done. 

Boyd doubled back through the living room. He jerked his head and half-smirked; when Jordan offered up his hand, Boyd tapped the center of his palm.

He slipped into sleep as easily as the others.

“Dude,” Scott breathed, watching Boyd in shock. “You’ve gotten good.”

“Thanks,” Boyd mumbled. His face fell. “Sorry, Scott.”

“What-”

Boyd’s hand dropped on the top of Scott’s head; it lolled forward almost instantly.

“What was that for?” Stiles demanded, gently disentangling himself from Derek’s loose grasp.

Derek grumbled and tucked his face into the corner of the couch that Stiles had vacated. 

“He can’t control his shift,” Boyd said simply. “He’ll be safer here.”

Stiles grimaced. “How long will they sleep?” He twisted his fingers in the hem of his shirt. He was still a little shaky. 

Boyd shrugged. “Hopefully long enough for us to get back.” 

“So we are getting Peter.” Stiles snatched the cell phone from the coffee table. 

“Well, we aren’t going out for ice cream.” 

Stiles nodded as Boyd patted Jordan down for the car keys. He could almost taste the irony of them going to rescue Peter, since he was the one who rescued them in the first place. “I’ll be right back. There’s some information on Jordan’s computer we might be able to use.” Stiles darted to the stairs, taking them two at a time. 

The library was just as quiet as the rest of the house, making every footfall a cannon blast. The bookshelves somehow added to the creep factor, making him feel boxed in.

Stiles ducked around the one in the middle of the room, running up to the desk. The computer’s screensaver twirled colorfully until he jiggled the mouse. Jordan’s login screen blinked at him, the username auto-filled. 

Stiles eased himself into the chair, fingers flickering over the keyboard. Most people, he knew, used variations of the names of people important to them. He typed ‘Peter’ into the password box and hit enter. Of course that would be too simple. He added ‘87’ to the end, scowling when it didn’t work. He knew it was the tail end of Jordan’s password, he’d seen him type it in to get into the program that showed the layout of the Argent’s mansion. How many people had more than a few passwords? He tapped his fingers at the edge of the desk, frustrated. 

“Is it anything we need?” Boyd asked, making Stiles jolt hard. He poked his head around the bookshelf behind Stiles. 

“Could be,” Stiles muttered. ‘Hale87’ also failed. “He has a lot of information on here.”

“I don’t know how long they’ll sleep; we should go.” Boyd rested a hand on the back of the seat. 

“Come on, Batman,” Stiles groaned. A lightbulb in his brain flickered. He deleted ‘PHale87’ and typed in ‘Ironman87’. Success. He fist pumped, double clicking on the program and logging in with the same user ID and password. 

“Not very secure,” Boyd commented. 

Stiles used the camera on the cell phone to take pictures of the town’s red areas and the layout of the mansion. “Better than us not being able to get in it.” He stood up, wobbling, and tucked the phone into his pocket. He rubbed his temple, dizzy, and turned to Boyd. “Ready.”

Boyd didn’t look impressed. “I packed up a bag of food. You can eat on the drive.”

“Thanks,” Stiles sighed. 

They descended the steps quickly; Boyd took a side trip to the kitchen to grab the bulging cloth bag of food he’d packed and met Stiles at the front door. 

“I’m driving,” Boyd said. “You give directions and eat.” He unlocked the car and jumped in the driver’s seat. “Once we’re on the freeway, you need to take a power nap.” 

Stiles woke the phone up, zooming in on one of the pictures to see what freeway they needed to get to Beacon Hills. He almost couldn’t believe they were going back, couldn’t believe they were risking everything for _Peter_ of all people. He dug into the food Boyd dropped on his lap and started eating. The only thing worse than going back into the lion’s den was going back and then fainting from exhaustion.


	18. Chapter 18

“Left,” Stiles said, just above a whisper. Could Deucalion hear them yet? He examined the red area marked on the map.

“I can see the exit sign, Stiles.” Boyd’s grip tightened on the steering wheel. 

Stiles fidgeted with the hem of his shirt. He’d decided if the Argent didn’t kill them, the Hales probably would. 

“I’m leaving the car just outside of town, by the Thornton’s gas station.” 

Stiles nodded. “That’s probably a good idea.” 

 

After the car was parked, Stiles took the phone out again to check the maps one last time. He could tell Boyd was frowning at him. “What?” he muttered.

“You don’t know Beacon Hills well enough to go without it?”

Stiles flapped his hand absently at him, checking the time before flicking the screen off. “We’ll need to take backstreets and avoid the street Scott and I live on. That one,” he sighed sadly, “was almost all red.” 

Boyd nodded knowingly. 

Stiles glanced at the clock on the dash: 3:02AM. He stuffed the phone in his back pocket, climbing clumsily out of the car. The cat nap and snacks on the ride had restored some of his strength, at least enough that he wasn’t completely blitzed with exhaustion. 

Boyd’s door shut a second after his; the locks didn’t click. “Better to leave it unlocked in case we’re in a hurry.” He tucked the keys into the pocket of his jacket. 

Stiles stamped his feet and crossed his arms, trying to keep himself warm as they started walking. Their footsteps echoed on the pavement, so loud Stiles was sure that they were about to get caught. Goosebumps chased themselves across Stiles’s extremities, making him shiver harshly. 

The town felt…empty. Buildings and houses became more frequent as they got closer. Most of them were dark as the occupants slept, blissfully unaffected by the things that made life hell for Stiles and his family. 

He rubbed his arms against the cold, biting on his lower lip to stop his teeth from chattering. Magic tingled beneath his skin, recognizing that he was home, that he was within walking distance of the nemeton. “Shh,” Stiles whispered, trying to push the magic down instinctively.

A street lamp above them flickered out, leaving them in the pitch dark. 

Boyd turned, catching his arm to stop him. “Don’t suppress the magic, it messes with the electronics,” he hissed.

Stiles shook him off. “Deucalion will smell it.”

“Small spells,” Boyd growled. 

Stiles scowled at him, but loosened his grasp—so to speak—on the magic. His sigils tingled; the one on his hip felt like it was crawling. He frowned, feeling the magic push and tug against his skin. He looked down at his side, expecting to see the magic on his clothes. What he hadn’t expected was the smoky fox darting out from behind him; Stiles yelped, jumping forward into Boyd’s back.

Boyd twisted, a large hand clamping over Stiles’s mouth. “What?” he asked, releasing him once he was sure Stiles wasn’t going to yell.

The fox flowed a few feet ahead, liquid-like, and twisted around, facing Stiles…sort of. It was silver and seemed to give off its own light. Stiles narrowed his eyes and it darted back to them, winding through their legs and back around. Stiles hadn’t chosen to do the spell. Did that count as a small spell?

“What?” Boyd hissed, unaware of the fox. 

“Nothing.” Stiles shook his head, trying to navigate the sensation of having control of something that wasn’t his own body. “Let’s go.” He tugged gently at Boyd’s sleeve until he started to walk again. 

The fox bolted toward them and then away; Stiles was not succeeding in ignoring it, if the confused looks Boyd was throwing his way were any indication. Thankfully, they were too close to the mansion to risk speaking, so they just kept walking. Stiles’s vision wavered as the fox slipped away, pulling part of his attention with it. Glimpses of trees and houses in the dark blurred just out of focus.

Boyd nudged his shoulder, motioning ahead. 

Stiles dragged his head up and discovered that they were in the shadow of the mansion. They’d made it. He crouched down, taking Boyd with him. He tugged the phone from his pocket and opened the pictures. He found the one of the Argents’ basement. He tilted the phone and pointed to the window Jordan had said had been busted. 

Boyd shook his head and lifted his hands, waggling his fingers. “Where?” he asked so quietly that Stiles almost didn’t hear him.

He held up a finger; the fox was slipping further away and he needed to focus. He forced himself back to where the fox was going, the way he would bring his own attention back to a particularly boring subject in school. It would only last as long as he didn’t get distracted. He directed the fox up the stairs and was impressed with himself when it actually went. 

It hit the door and flattened to smoke, gliding under the door. Stiles’s head rocked gently; it was confusing, seeing Boyd and the phone in front of him while simultaneously seeing the inside of the mansion. It was the way he’d seen Kali in the woods earlier, but he was more aware this time, able to split his focus as long as he dug his fingers into the grass where his body was. 

The part of Stiles that was in the fox trekked up the stairs; no one was on the main floor. When he reached the top of the steps, his skin rose in renewed goosebumps as awareness prickled at the back of his neck. He turned down a hallway in which the first room was empty, but Jordan hadn’t marked it as in-use anyway. He slipped under the door of a room that should’ve been Kate’s. A burst of triumph had the fox doing a jumping circle, maybe a four-legged version of a fist pump. She was in bed, asleep. 

He slipped back under the door and out into the hall. More exploration proved that Gerard was also asleep; something about his room set the hair on the back of Stiles’s neck raising, though he wasn’t sure if it was a scent or just the knowledge of who he was. 

Chris wasn’t in the room Jordan had marked for him, but he found him a moment later in a room that, under any other circumstance, Stiles would have called a library. After seeing the Hales’ library, this was more of a sitting room with a few bookcases. Chris was sitting in a worn, faded blue armchair, nursing a frankly appalling amount of whisky. His eyes were swollen and bloodshot and he was slumped low in the chair, legs an ungainly sprawl in front of him. 

Stiles could have sworn he heard him sniffle as he retreated. What did Chris have to be upset about? 

He shook off his curiosity and slid back down the hall; Boyd was pressing hard fingers into his shoulder, trying to get his attention, but he shook his head, motioning at him that he was still conscious, that he needed a minute. He wasn’t sure if he could talk like this, or that if he did, it would come out of his mouth and not the fox’s. 

He scoured the entire house, looking for Deucalion, but he couldn’t find him. He zipped back down to the main floor and down the second set of stairs. He could sense Peter before he even made it to the door. He heard a dull crackling just on the other side. 

“Stiles.” A low zap of electricity jolted him fully into his own body, the spell fading as his consciousness left it. Boyd was crouched in front of him now, brows furrowed. 

“Everyone, except Chris and Deucalion, is asleep,” Stiles breathed. He shook his head to clear his vision, clenching his hands into fists in the pocket of his hoodie. “Chris is upstairs, drunk.”

Boyd nodded and rose to his feet silently. He crept across the yard, surefooted and soundless as he went for the steps.

Stiles followed, watching warily as Boyd placed a hand on the doorknob. There was a soft _click_ as the lock tumblers turned. The door swung open. 

The house was darker than Stiles had expected it to be, but he guessed magical sight extended to night vision. They stuck close together, making their way through the living room. They were careful to dodge furniture and rogue rugs. A flicker of silver teased at the edge of Stiles’s vision, but when he looked, the fox hadn’t formed again. 

Boyd descended the stairs first, a wise choice in case Stiles lost his balance and pitched forward, which was a valid concern. 

At the base of the stairs, they crept forward and around the corner. Stiles saw the room they’d been kept in, the door ajar like they’d only just escaped. 

Stiles’s skin began to crawl. The crackling sound he’d heard when he’d investigated grew louder the closer they got to the door where Peter was. Stiles recognized it now, along with the creeping feeling along his skin: electricity buzzing, like an exposed wire.

Boyd rested a hand on the door. There was a grinding click at about head level, and something turned with a heavy _thunk_ at shoulder height. A tumbling of gears just above the handle followed that, and then the gentle click of a simple push lock. The door swung open. 

The room was lit in an eerie, flickering blue glow. There was a desk off to the immediate right with a computer set atop it. Several wires twisted out from under the computer.

Stiles followed the wires with his gaze across the floor, under a stool in the middle of the room and hooked up to a chain link fence against the far wall. Peter was strapped in the center, caught in his beta form, head hanging and chin on his chest. His arms were cuffed above his head, and he had large gashes across his face and chest. Blood dripped sluggishly down his front and pooled onto the floor. 

There was, Stiles thought with a nauseous swallow, a lot of blood. 

Peter’s body jerked as a particularly powerful jolt coursed through him, a high, strangled whine of pain coming from his throat. 

“Boyd,” Stiles whispered, stepping forward with a hand lifted to help. He froze, realizing he wouldn’t be able to do anything to help. He dropped his hand and stepped back, walking to the desk. He doubted the computer would be as easy to hack as Jordan’s. He wasn’t wrong. He typed Gerard’s name for the first password attempt. The screen alerted him that he’d entered the wrong password. 

The room glowed at the same time the alert popped up, and Peter howled, long and pained, throwing his head back, tendons bulging as he strained at his shackles. 

“Don’t!” Boyd snapped, as if Stiles hadn’t already figured out that he’d caused that. He shut the door at his back. 

Stiles bit down on his lip, cringing as Peter’s pained howls slipped down to gasps and gagging. He looked pointedly from the computer to Boyd.

He sighed and made his way across the room, stepping carefully over the wires. He motioned for Stiles to follow. 

He slid out from behind the desk, mindful of where he stepped. 

Boyd reached out, sparks dancing across his fingertips; it was reminiscent of the way he’d demonstrated one of the spells he knew when Stiles first got captured, only at a larger scale. 

“Oh,” he remembered himself saying, “that kind of shock.” 

“Get ready to open the cuffs,” Boyd said sharply. “They aren’t locked.” He walked closer until he was almost toe-to-toe with Peter. 

From this angle, strung up like a tapestry, Peter looked smaller than them, weaker. Stiles grimaced and tried not to look away. 

Whatever he’d expected to happen sure wasn’t what actually went down. 

Boyd’s hand was inches away from the fence when a surge of power jumped from the metal to his hand; it rushed up his wrist and arm, stopping before it reached his chest; it spread to his torso and down his legs, then straight into the floor. Like he was drawing it away.

Stiles lunged forward, swiping the cuffs open while Boyd redirected the current. 

Peter collapsed forward, landing on Stiles; his knees buckled under the sudden weight, sending them both to the floor. 

Boyd jerked and twitched under the flow of electricity; he painstakingly pulled his hand away from the fence, his teeth grinding audibly, but the current held, pinning him to the spot. He was somehow keeping the shocks from going to his heart and head, but that effort seemed to cost him the ability to stop it completely. 

The room grew warmer, stifling, and Boyd bowed forward, face twisting in pain; he managed to stumble a step backwards, but the electricity held on. 

Stiles pushed Peter off of him, shoving himself to his feet. His heart hammered; Boyd was trapped and Peter was a raw, bleeding lump. 

Peter groaned, rolling onto his side and away from the threat. Maybe not a _complete_ lump, but still more than Stiles could handle on his own. A vicious, animal snarl ripped from Peter’s throat.

Stiles instinctively jumped back, his elbow brushing unwittingly against Boyd’s. Pain surged through him, his body going rigid as his muscles all tensed at once. He only realized he was moving when his back crashed into the desk and he crumbled to the floor. The scent of charred flesh made him gag as he rolled over, his body jerking as his muscles tensed and relaxed rapidly. 

Somewhere in the room, Peter began to growl.

Boyd groaned.

The door flew open, throwing a column of light through the room.

Stiles painstakingly got to his feet, his body throbbing in protest the entire way. He blinked through the sudden change in light until he could make out an unsteady silhouette. 

Chris had to hold onto the doorframe to keep himself upright.

Boyd shuffled behind him, gingerly lifting one of Peter’s arms in a feeble attempt to get him moving. He had burns on his hands and forearms, but the electricity seemed to have dispersed. 

Stiles hobbled to his other side, slinging Peter’s other arm over his shoulders. 

Chris didn’t move from the doorway; he had the doorframe in one hand, his glass of whisky in the other. He gazed blearily at the trio.

Peter blinked slowly, lips twitching over his fangs in either a snarl or a smirk. His legs wobbled when he tried to support his own weight. 

Chris backed out of the doorway and into the hall, giving them room to pass. What the hell was he _doing_?

Stiles glanced at Boyd, who stared back at him with blank eyes. Stiles nodded and decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth, starting to drag Peter forward. 

Boyd walked forward, too, lurching for the doorway. 

Footsteps thundered above them, signaling that the rest of the house was awake.

“Use the window,” Chris slurred, motioning toward the cell Liam had been in. Some of his whisky sloshed over the rim of his glass and down over his hand. He turned, staggering toward the stairs. 

Stiles looked at Boyd in disbelief. What was he playing at? 

Peter had regained some of his strength in the short distance from the cell to the hall, so Boyd was able to slip out from under his arm without risking dropping him to the floor. He held himself up using Stiles for leverage while Boyd fumbled to open the door, his hands still twitchy from the shock. 

Voices floated down the hall; Stiles could make out Kate’s impatient, authoritative snapping and Gerard’s raspy croak. He always sounded like he had a bad sore throat. Serves him right, Stiles thought bitterly. 

Boyd threw the door of the cell open and waved Stiles in; he hurried into the room, helping Peter stumble in, and shut the door tightly behind them. 

Peter stepped away on his own, withdrawing his arm from Stiles’s shoulder. He managed only a few steps before his legs gave out. A snarl tore from his throat; he roughly shoved himself to his feet like he could force himself to full strength through sheer force of will. He crossed the room, knocking the remaining shards of glass from the window frame. “Here.” Peter gestured them forward impatiently. He grabbed Boyd around the waist and lifted him, gently throwing him out the high window. 

Stiles got the feeling he wouldn’t get such care when it was his turn.

Boyd rolled free of the window, sprawling in the grass.

Peter turned and grabbed Stiles, flinging him out.

Stiles hit the ground and rolled out of the way. The night swirled around him nauseatingly, even after he’d stopped rolling. He was upright before he understood what was going on, amazed at his own grace. 

Peter vaulted through the window after them, landing hard and giving himself a shake. 

Stiles glanced back at the window; he could sense his own magic spreading throughout the basement, tendrils creeping and feeling along the edges of the walls. “Come on,” he hissed, annoyed that he couldn’t stop the spell. It was like yanking at a rope attached to a boat the size of the Titanic. 

Peter loped up next to him, growling something that might’ve been “move!” 

He moved.

They ran into the woods, not unlike the first time they’d escaped. They crashed through the underbrush toward the only safe place Stiles could think of: the nemeton. 

Kate, Gerard, and Chris knew they were here, or at the very least, that Peter had escaped. Deucalion wouldn’t be too far behind, and Stiles, damn it, was laying a nice, thick scent trail of magic. 

The nemeton looked older when it finally came into view. Branches had hollowed and fallen over the roots, and deep grooves in the pattern of the bark looked more like wrinkles than wood. 

Boyd ducked into the tunnel first, wincing and panting at the exertion. 

Peter balked, eyeing the opening with trepidation.

“Go!” Stiles nudged him from behind. 

Peter didn’t need more encouragement, vanishing beneath the root system with Stiles on his heels. 

In the distance, Deucalion howled ferociously. 

Stiles stood in the darkness. The tendrils of magic seemed to flow out of him like water, dripping to the floor and spreading through the room to map the positions of his companions. 

Boyd had sunk to the ground by the wall, his breathing heavy. The tendrils of magic crept over him, picking up the unsteady beating of his heart. 

Stiles made his way to him; when he put a hand on his shoulder, it felt like he had a charge, not enough to hurt him, but enough to raise the hair on Stiles’s arms. “You’ll be alright,” he said, similar to the way he’d comfort Scott. He pulled oxygen and magic into his lungs, slowly offering it to Boyd through his palm.

Boyd’s breathing began to even out, heart beat regaining a more natural pattern. “Thanks,” he rasped. A fine tremor began to spread between them, though it was impossible to tell which one of them it originated in. 

Stiles nodded and squeezed his shoulder before he stepped back, too breathless for an audible reply. His head spun dangerously, so he took a hasty step toward the wall before he fell over.

Peter stood in the middle of the room, no doubt able to see more clearly than either of them. He stared at the tree root, much more stable than he’d been while they’d been fleeing the mansion. “Where are the others?” he finally asked, not completely turning away from the root.

“Home,” Boyd replied. His head thumped quietly as he dropped it against the wall. 

“My sister let you two come here on your own?” Peter turned away then, surveying them with a clinical, cool expression. 

“Not…in so many words.” Stiles slid down to the floor, his legs giving up. He felt like he was going to be sick, or maybe pass out. 

Peter’s gaze flicked to him. “What words did she use?” His voice almost sounded back to normal. 

“Something along the lines of…‘no’.” Stiles waved a hand back and forth. “You know, with the whole ‘this was Peter’s plan, blah, blah’.” 

Peter blinked, shocked, then amused, then aggrieved. “You don’t know what you’ve done.” He shook his head. “You should have just left me.”

“You’re welcome,” Stiles drawled. “They would have killed you.”

“How did you even get here?” Peter demanded. “Are we running home now?”

Stiles noticed Peter included himself in the escape plans, moments after claiming he should’ve been left behind. He also noticed he said the word “running” as if the idea wasn’t laughably impossible. “We, er, borrowed Jordan’s car.” Stiles crossed his arms to keep his trembling hands hidden. He probably looked like a pouting toddler, but Boyd couldn’t see him and Peter’s opinions didn’t matter. 

“He gave you permission?” Peter asked. “Because that’s what the word ‘borrowed’ typically implies.”

“We took it,” Stiles amended, sighing. “He was sleeping. We couldn’t ask. That’d be rude.” Technically, they could have asked before Boyd knocked him out, but that hadn’t seemed like the kind of thing they should’ve wasted time on.

Peter seemed unimpressed. “So where’s the car?”

“Just outside of town,” Boyd breathed. “By Thornton’s.” 

Peter slowly turned to look at him. “And how, pray tell, do you plan on getting us from here,” he gestured at the roots, “to there, three miles away, when you both look like death warmed over?”

“Walk,” Stiles said flatly.

Peter scowled. “And you’re not at all concerned about the hunters or Deucalion prowling the town.” He shook his head. “You’d make a decent defender with that sort of confidence.” 

“I can find Deucalion,” Stiles ground out.

Peter lifted a brow. “Then where is he?” The words themselves weren’t a challenge, but his tone and demeanor certainly made it seem like one.

“Stiles,” Boyd warned, but Stiles was already releasing the spell with a little sigh, tingling on his hip. 

The tendrils of magic floating just above the floor regrouped, shaping into the fox. It did a lap around the room while Stiles tried to gain control of it. It was like his senses had escaped into the room, leaving his body limp on the ground. It brushed against the back of Peter’s legs, then by Boyd’s knee. “Go find Deucalion,” he rasped. The orange glow from his eyes lit the room.

The fox slid up through the tunnel, slithering more snakelike than anything. 

Stiles’s sight went with it; he couldn’t concentrate enough to keep a visual on the room while also watching where he was going outside. It felt like he was soaring over the ground, not even running; gliding over the first fallen tree like _he_ was the magic, not a physical being anymore.

The trip back to the Argents felt like it took only minutes. Stiles knew, somehow, that Deucalion wasn’t there. He could also map out the path he’d taken, so he followed that, zipping along the street toward his—his home. 

He hesitated at the edge of the yard, sensing sadness and grief. He paused. He hadn’t known him and Scott leaving would tear their parents up this badly. It wasn’t as if they were _dead_. 

A snarl at the edge of the driveway made him freeze. Deucalion paced a large circle around the house, though John and Melissa were none the wiser. He snarled again and ran for the high school. 

“He’s going to the school.” Stiles’s voice sounded distant and foreign as he separated himself from the spell. It felt like he was fighting against a powerful magnet, the magic clinging to his mind like cobwebs and entangling him. He let out a soft gasp and lost his grip, sliding right back out of his own body and to the fox again. Arms scooped up his human body, his head rolling lifelessly onto an overly warm shoulder. 

At the same time, he darted around a corner after Deucalion, ducking and weaving as if he could see him. 

“Where is he now?” Peter’s voice drew him back a little, just enough that he felt a cool breeze rustle his shirt. Were they outside? Or was that where his mind was, outside and far away. 

“Lacrosse field,” he slurred with an effort. He stopped fighting to separate himself from the fox and let himself drift.


	19. Chapter 19

“Is he alright?” Scott’s voice floated to Stiles as if through cotton, fuzzy and muffled but unmistakable. “He’s never slept this long before.” 

Huh. How long was _this_ long?

…

“—so much trouble.” Was that Cora or Laura? The amusement made Stiles wonder if it was Cora, laughing at his expense. That sounded like her.

…

Someone had killed him and stuffed his head with cotton. Though why anyone would want a taxidermy-Stiles, he couldn’t be sure. His mouth felt like he’d stored some sandpaper in there, which made sense if he was now a living room decoration. He hoped they’d posed him like a superhero at least. 

Testing, he opened and closed his mouth, rasping a little when he realized he could. Damn. No super-heroic post-life for him then.

A straw gently pressed against his bottom lip; a hand cupped the back of his head and lifted so he wouldn’t choke. An angel, obviously. 

“How are you feeling?” Derek asked, taking the water away when he was done.

Stiles blinked until his eyes focused. He wasn’t in the guest room he and Scott shared, but he was certainly back at the Hale house. How the fuck had he gotten back here? Where were—“Boyd,” Stiles croaked. “And Peter, they—we have to-” He struggled weakly to sit up, fighting against Derek’s restraining hold. 

Derek huffed and lifted him gently until he was propped up against the headboard behind him. He kept his hands on his waist until it was clear he wasn’t going to tip over. “They’re alright. They’re home, too.” A smile curved the corner of his mouth, soft and small. 

Stiles relaxed at the words. At least they’d gotten back. His head was pounding viciously, making it difficult to keep his eyes open. 

Derek put his hand over Stiles’s on the blankets; the pain began to fade. 

Stiles chuckled weakly. That sounded like a cheesy romance novel. The loving, gentle touch of his crush eased his pain. 

“You’re dehydrated,” Derek said suddenly. “You should drink more water.” He pressed the bottle into Stiles’s free hand. 

He obliged. The water was like heaven, all cool and soothing. Maybe he’d just go back to sleep after drinking the whole bottle. 

The door creaked open, drawing Stiles’s attention away from his water. Scott’s anxious face poked around the corner. A wide grin split his face when he saw Stiles sitting up. “Dude! You’re awake!” He lunged forward in a powerful leap that should have landed him right in the bed—should have.

Derek jumped from his spot next to the bed and caught Scott around the waist in one move, knocking them both against the wall. Derek blocked Scott when he tried to duck around him, and Scott let out a pitiful whine. “Calm down first,” Derek instructed, shifting yet again to block his escape. “You can’t pounce on the wounded. You’ll hurt him more.” 

Scott deflated, peeking at Stiles from over Derek’s shoulder. 

Stiles stared back at him. “I’m wounded?” His body mostly felt like a throbbing bruise, but that was it. None of his limbs seemed to be in casts, and all of them wiggled when he instructed them to. 

“You’ve been out for _days_ ,” Scott said. He darted forward when Derek let him by, only to forcibly make himself slow down as he got closer to the bed. “How much magic did you _use?_ ” 

“Not _that_ much. I thought.” Stiles frowned. He couldn’t remember when he’d ended the searching spell. His stomach chose that moment to sing the sorrowful song of starvation. 

Scott looked startled. 

“I’ll go get you food.” Derek slipped out of the room before Stiles could answer. 

“Was Talia mad?” Stiles whispered, glancing up at Scott hesitantly. An angry alpha was the last thing he wanted to deal with at the moment. He fisted his hands in the blanket still covering his legs. Maybe he’d pull it over his head and hide under there as long as he could.

“Dude,” he breathed, “the three of you are so grounded.”

“Ground—what?” Stiles frowned. “Three of us? Boyd and I are the ones who made a break for the border. Er. So to speak.”

Scott leveled him with a concerned look. “Peter’s not off the hook. He’s the reason you guys were unconscious so long, he kept pushing you to use magic. Boyd said you gave them details on Deucalion the whole time Peter carried you to the car, then you just…passed out.” 

Stiles looked down at the blanket. He didn’t remember that. “How long was I out?”

“Three days.” Scott sat on the edge of the bed, moving closer until his side was pressed up against Stiles’s. 

Stiles stared blankly into the room. Three days. How could he have been out for three days, and still want to sleep for hours? “Boyd and Peter are alright?”

Scott hummed. “Peter’s probably going to have some scars. Wounds from silver blades and alpha claws apparently take a long time to heal. Boyd had some burns and looked like he’d been plugged into a light socket. What happened? They were vague when they were telling us.”

“Electric fence, not a light socket.” Stiles took another drink of water, his energy already sapped. 

“That’s…so much worse. Anyway, he looks almost back to normal, but he was exhausted, too. He only slept for a day and a half.” 

Only a day and a half, Stiles thought dimly. They’d done a number on themselves, but they’d made it. He let his head rest back against the headboard, eyes going half lidded. If he wasn’t so hungry, he thought he could fall asleep right then.

Derek returned with a plate bigger than his head balanced in his hands. “Peter says you need high caloric foods.” Derek put the plate on the nightstand. It had what looked like breakfast pizza on it. 

Stiles looked from the weird pizza and up at Derek’s face. 

“Jordan and Boyd agreed.” 

Stiles glanced past him toward the door, half expecting to see Jordan or Talia in the doorway. Surely Talia knew he was awake by now. She hadn’t come in to tell him off yet. He fidgeted nervously at the blanket, remembering the red glow of Deucalion’s eyes and the slash of his claws across Scott’s chest. 

Scott whined, bumping his shoulder against Stiles’s and making him wince. 

Stiles swallowed and reached, wincing, for the plate and put it in his lap. “How mad is your mom?” he asked carefully, forcing himself to look at Derek.

He sighed and sat at the foot of the bed. “She was pretty upset.” His face was an unreadable mask. “You two put yourselves in danger, put Peter in _greater_ danger, and risked exposing us.” 

“They already know where you are!” Stiles snapped, and cringed. Raising his voice made his throat hurt, and his chest. “They’ve attacked us already, remember?” He pointed at his neck, which still hurt from the guy that’d tried to strangle him. 

Derek pressed his lips together, cutting his gaze away like he’d already heard that argument. 

Stiles broke a piece off the pizza, examining it. Scrambled eggs mixed with bacon and cheese and some kind of sauce—or gravy, maybe. “Well, Talia said you guys don’t put people in the basement…” His chest clenched. Derek hadn’t said that, Jordan and Talia had. Hopefully they hadn’t changed that rule. Though if anyone was inadvertently going to change someone’s philosophy about locking people up, it would be Stiles. “What’s our punishment?” he croaked. 

Scott’s chest rumbled like a warning, but Derek just shot him an impatient glance. He didn’t stop growling.

“House arrest, to put it simply.” He started straightening the blankets around Stiles’s legs. “You, Boyd, and Peter. I’m keeping tabs on you, Erica and Laura are on Boyd-duty. Mom’s taken on Peter since she didn’t want to inflict him on anyone else. Jordan’s practically sitting on him, so he can’t escape anyway.”

“And I only have you?” Stiles blurted, realizing too late how condescending that sounded. 

Derek huffed. “I’m more than qualified.” He scowled, the muscles in his arms flexing.

“I’m sure you are.”

Scott wrinkled his nose and shook his head in disgust. “My dude.”

Stiles chuckled, stuffing a piece of pizza in his mouth and trying to look innocent. The second the food touched his tongue, his brain clicked into gear, alerting him that he was _starving._ The pizza was gone in minutes, his stomach aching from being stuffed with food after going so long without. Now that he was fed and no longer parched, he realized he had to _go_. “Move,” he whined, pushing at Scott’s chest in a feeble attempt to move him out of the way. 

Scott frowned but didn’t move until Stiles swatted at him. 

He swung his legs off the bed, entangling them in the blankets Derek was sitting on. The result sent him pitching forward over Scott’s lap, crying out as the bruises on his ribs pressed into Scott’s stupid knobby knees. 

Scott grabbed him and helped him sit up, keeping him upright. 

Derek stood, releasing Stiles’s legs from their downy prison. He held out an arm for Stiles to steady himself on. “I’ll walk you to the bathroom,” he offered, then hesitated and glanced at Scott. “Unless you’d prefer him.”

“I don’t care,” Stiles hissed. “This is an emergency situation, move it!” He shuffled forward, tugging on Derek’s arm and ignoring his bark of laughter. “I’m not a senior citizen, dude, pick up the pace!” 

“I think if we go any faster, you’re going to fall. But if you do, you probably won’t have a problem anymore.” 

“Oh my god, you’re a dick.” Stiles shuffled faster, nearly tripping over his own feet. He was secretly grateful Derek was there to keep him from doing a header, but he wasn’t going to admit that. 

“Boyd took a few days to get his strength back, too,” Derek said, ignoring his insults. 

Stiles scowled. He’d slept and eaten. He should be fine now. 

“Being shocked and making a mad dash through the woods after a fight with hunters also takes a physical toll.”

Stiles glanced at him, frowning. Why was he talking so much? This was probably more than Derek had spoken to him the whole time he’d been here. 

He was panting like an overheated dog by the time they got to the bathroom. 

Derek steadied him in front of the toilet, then hesitated before letting go of his arm. He made sure Stiles was sure on his feet before taking a step back. He didn’t look like he was going to leave the room. 

That just wouldn’t do. “I’ll be fine. Please.” He shooed him, shifting his weight uneasily. Only once Derek’s back was turned and he took a step toward the toilet, he realized he was not fine at all. His right leg shook and then gave out, his hand shot out, fingers wrapping around the towel rod on his way down to the floor. The rack snapped off the wall with a _crack._ He landed on his butt facing the toilet in a daze. He’d managed to partially destroy the bathroom in under a second.

Derek swore, whipping around. He was at Stiles’s side in an instant, one hand on his arm. The pain of his tailbone drained away. Now that he was looking, Stiles could see black lines tracing up Derek’s hand where he was touching Stiles. 

Stiles stared at it; it almost looked like magic. 

“Just—sit.” He rolled his eyes impatiently when Stiles just stared at him. “To pee. Sit down.” He helped him up.

“Oh.” Stiles held out the towel rod. “It broke.”

Derek snorted. “The house has seen worse. Cora’s tantrum of ’16 holds the record.” 

Stiles hummed, making a mental note to get the details of _that_ story later. He looked longingly at the bathtub. Washing up sounded nice. He could feel the sweat and dirt still clinging to his skin. 

Derek saw where he was looking. “Do you want me to bring you clean clothes? I can fill the tub for you, but a shower might be out of your range of abilities at the moment.” 

Stiles nodded. 

After a moment making sure he wasn’t going to fall again, Derek left the room, promising to be back quickly. 

Stiles gripped the counter, using Derek’s absence to ease himself down on the toilet. He groaned, his muscles throbbing in protest. Since when did it hurt to _sit?_ If this was how Melissa felt after leg day at the gym, Stiles was never giving her shit about skipping a class or two again. 

He’d managed to stand, sweatpants crumpled on the floor, gripping the counter tightly, when there was a brief knock on the door. 

It opened a crack. Derek peeked around the corner. “Still alive?”

Stiles laughed dryly. “So far, yes.” 

Derek entered the room completely, setting a red shirt and soft looking sweatpants next to the sink. 

“What were the black lines on your arm earlier?” Stiles asked, watching Derek putter around him to set up the bath. 

“Werewolves can take pain.” He began adjusting the knobs in the tub, testing the water with his wrist. 

“Ironic,” Stiles snorted, remembering the pain Deucalion caused the sparks and Peter. “But helpful,” he added hastily when Derek glanced at him. “Thanks.” 

Derek grunted, turning back to the water. He was apparently satisfied with the temperature, because he sat back, motioning for Stiles to sit on the toilet again. 

Stiles’s mouth was half-open in protest when Derek gently took him by the waist and sat him down, mumbling about not wanting him to fall again. Stiles sat, staring blankly at the floor. His body was still sore; he could almost feel the electricity jolting through him, like all of his muscles had fallen asleep at once, tingling and achy. 

“Once you’re in the tub, I can leave,” Derek said, crouching until he was in Stiles’s line of sight so he didn’t have to move. “To give you some privacy. Just say something and I’ll be right in if you need help.”

Stiles’s head bobbed forward in a drunken nod. 

Derek took the hem of his shirt, lifting it carefully over his head, maneuvering his arms with gentle hands when it seemed like Stiles’s strength had given out. 

Stiles shivered and allowed Derek to scoop him up; his skin was warm where it brushed Stiles’s, his hands careful as he lowered him, boxer briefs and all, into the bath. Ripples sent the water sloshing against the side of the tub. His legs slid forward, stretching out in the hot water. He stared at them, trying and failing to bend his knees. He snorted, frustration welling inside him. He’d walked to the damn bathroom—assisted walking, but still…walking—he should’ve been able to lift his leg. He tried to lift his hand, but his muscles shook and refused to obey. He ended up splashing as his arms jerked. 

Derek’s hand was still under his back, thumb rubbing against the curve of his shoulder. He looked concerned. 

Stiles was surprised when he didn’t ask what was wrong. He guessed the answer was pretty obvious. He took a long, deep breath through his nose and blew it out through his mouth, trying to keep calm. It didn’t mean anything; he was just exhausted, on top of being banged up. 

“Do you want me to send Scott in here?” Derek asked quietly. He switched the taps off. 

Stiles’s eyes burned with unshed tears of frustration. He wanted to say yes. He didn’t want to be left alone at the moment, barely able to move and in pain, so tired it felt like he would never move again. “No,” he breathed. “I don’t want him to see me like this.” Weak, weepy, useless. 

Derek paused, scrutinizing his face. 

Stiles hunched forward, trembling and trying to force his muscles to relax. 

Derek’s palm pressed hot against his chest, easing him back against the wall. “Scott wouldn’t think less of you. No one would.”

“I—can’t move my legs,” Stiles admitted, staring at the pale glow of his limbs under the water. He sensed Derek’s alarm and looked up quickly. “I’m not paralyzed,” he blurted.

“You were electrocuted. You could be,” he snapped.

“Dude, I walked in here.” 

“Maybe it was delayed because of your magic.” 

“I’m not. It’s just…” He sighed, letting his chin drop to his chest. “I’m just so tired. It’s like a low level of pain everywhere.” He flexed his foot, satisfied when it moved; the one twitch turned into a whole spasm, his knee jerking up against the side of the tub. 

Derek’s hand cupped his kneecap, protecting him from another bruise. “Do you want me to send someone else up here?” He rubbed circles against the side of his knee with his thumb. “Boyd? Isaac? Peter or Jordan if you promise not to kill them?” He smiled at his kinda lame attempt at lightening the mood.

Stiles forced a chuckle. He turned his hand palm up under the water and twitched his fingers, counting them as they moved. He didn’t want any of those people in here either, and it wasn’t like he was going to be able to hold his own against anyone, so murder was out. 

Derek sat back on his heels, forehead creased with conflicting emotions. 

Stiles wanted to sink under the water and sleep for days. It sounded peaceful and enticing. His knees bent and he slid further down. A tear slid down his cheek, though he wasn’t sure why he was so upset; he didn’t want to be alone, but he didn’t want Scott to see him like this, or Boyd to lecture him about overusing his magic, or Isaac’s awkward we-used-to-know-each-other-but-not-like-this expression.

“Hey.” Derek leaned forward earnestly. He cupped Stiles’s face, black lines tracing up his wrist.

Stiles thought he didn’t have the energy to take away every ache and pain he was feeling.

“What’s wrong?” He brushed the tear away with his thumb, looking alarmed. 

“I’m tired, everything hurts. I—feel weak and stupid,” he muttered, reaching up to wipe his face clumsily. His hands still weren’t quite working right. The back of his left arm throbbed and stung when he dropped it back against the tub. “I don’t want to be alone.” He kept his gaze down. “Please don’t leave.” The words were barely breathed, mostly a thought, and he shut his eyes. He hated that he sounded like a scared child clinging to his parent’s clothes. He’d just broken a werewolf out of captivity, had gone back to the place where his mother had died, where he’d almost died, and now he was afraid to be alone in the bathtub. 

A warm hand brought a rag up to his shoulder, massaging unscented soap into his trembling muscles. 

He squeezed his eyes shut and eased back against the tub, allowing Derek to continue his ministrations. It was a few seconds before Stiles realized he was talking to him, murmuring soft encouragements. 

Derek ran the rag down Stiles’s chest, thorough but clinical in a way that normally would have discouraged him, but at the moment, it was comforting. The feeling of filth being washed away made him relax further. 

His leg muscles relaxed enough that he could twitch his toes and ankles; a sigh slipped from his mouth. His head tipped back, letting Derek run the rag around his neck, gingerly wiping blood from the cuts left by the hunter, careful of the bruises. 

Stiles hadn’t realized he’d started drifting until he felt the rag against his hip. 

Derek made a low, amused sound.

Stiles pried his eyes open with the power of his curiosity alone, making a questioning noise because words seemed beyond him at the moment. 

“Found it.” Derek rinsed soap from the spiraled sigil on his hip.

A weak smile twitched the corners of Stiles’s lips. “You already found that one,” he slurred. 

Derek’s gaze roved over his torso and legs, slow and intent in a way that might have had Stiles shivering before, but he was just too damn tired. 

He yawned, letting his eyes slip closed again. 

“Let’s get your back, then you can go back to bed.” Derek nudged him forward a little, until he slumped against the edge of the tub. “Put your arms up on the edge, yeah.” He directed him like he was posing a mannequin made of soggy bread, but eventually he was positioned in a way he could work with. 

Stiles let his head tip forward onto his arms, mouth falling open as sleep dragged him under. The front of Derek’s shirt brushed the top of his head, reminding him of getting baths as a child, when both his parents would take turns washing his hair and distracting him with bath toys. He drifted while the rag rubbed in quick, efficient circles into his shoulders, dipping to the middle and lower parts of his back. It was nice. Like a massage. 

There was a quiet splash, then warm water sluiced down his back, rinsing away the soap. He hummed appreciatively. 

Derek leaned away for a moment; the water began draining with a dull _glug_. Before he could start shivering, a thick, soft towel wrapped around him from behind. He knew, in a distant, dreamy sort of way, that Derek carried him from the bathroom and into the bedroom, and that Derek had dried him and handed him clean, dry boxers before leaving the room, but he barely remembered it. It was as if he was remembering scenes from a long forgotten movie rather than his own life. 

The blankets on the bed were nice, even nicer than the towel. He turned his face against them, fingers grasping clumsily at the edges of them, still too weak to pull them over him. 

The bed shifted, the blankets vanished, and then settled over him. A body sank onto the bed next to him; too conscious of his personal space to be Scott, too gentle to be Cora. 

Stiles fell asleep before he could turn around to see if it really was Derek.


	20. Chapter 20

“Stiles.” Derek’s face faded in and out of focus, like someone was adjusting the settings on a TV screen. “Stiles, you need to drink something. You’re dehydrated.” 

How could he be dehydrated? He’d just drank from the bottle of water Derek gave him a few hours ago. A straw pressed against his lips insistently and he caved. It couldn’t hurt to drink some more. The water seemed thick, or was his throat just tight? Maybe he was dehydrated. 

 

The next time he came around, Derek’s room was empty and lit by sunlight. 

Stiles pushed himself up painfully, but he was able to do it. He took stock of himself. He was thinking clearer and didn’t feel on the edge of a breakdown. He flexed his toes, then ankles, his knees, arms, everything seemed to be in working order. The bed squeaked when he stood up; he looked at the door. He didn’t want to say he expected Scott to come barreling to his side, but given his recent clinginess, he totally did. 

The clothes Derek had set out had been moved to the top of the dresser set to the left of the door. Stiles pulled them on, only wobbling once and that was well within his normal clumsiness.

Once clothed, he ventured into the hallway, which felt even emptier then the bedroom had. His stomach rumbled; he wondered how long it’d been since he’d eaten. He pressed a hand against it absently, other hand clenched around the handrail as he traversed the staircase. He hit the landing, turning on the balls of his feet toward the living room. 

Jordan looked up from the couch at the sound of his approached. His eyes widened, mouth slackening just slightly. “Stiles.” He pushed himself to his feet, dumping whatever boxes and papers that had been on his lap onto the cushion next to him. “How’re you feeling?” He motioned for Stiles to sit on one of the recliners. 

Stiles frowned, not moving any closer.

“Perfect!” A lady exited one of the guest rooms down the hall, the one he and Scott had stayed in, holding a bag in hand. Where was Scott sleeping then? “I told them you should be waking up around now. Usually my timing is better.” She walked toward him as she spoke. “I prefer to keep patients in beds for as long as possible. The prone position helps distribute magic evenly through the body.”

Stiles side stepped when she got closer, casting Jordan a confused look. He looked back at the woman. 

She stepped toward him again, smiling and at least coming across as unthreatening. 

He backed up again; the seat of the recliner hit the bends of his knees, sending him backwards onto the seat. “Who the hell are you?” he demanded, finally finding his words. 

The lady stopped, her hand lifted toward him. It fell back to her side and her smile softened. “I guess you wouldn’t recognize me. I thought maybe the animal magic would, with how Peter described you using it.”

“Stiles,” Jordan cut in, “this is Dr. Morrell. She’s a friend of the pack.” 

“A spark?” Stiles squinted at her. He thought sparks were unique to Beacon Hills. Well, he guessed any dying nemeton could make them. 

“No,” Morrell said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “But I’ve worked with Alan Deaton for years. He and I are still in contact, so I know more about sparks than anyone outside of Beacon Hills.” 

Stiles huffed. No one in Beacon Hills knew anything about sparks except probably Deaton. “How do you know him?” he asked. “And how do you stay in contact with him? Communication within Beacon Hills is hard, let alone with someone outside the city limits.” 

“Cell phones, like Peter and Jordan used. Nothing too fancy.” She shrugged. “My brother isn’t super technologically inclined.”

“Brother?” Stiles gaped. Who knew Deaton had a sibling? He ran a hand over his face and his stomach clenched, reminding him he had needs that had yet to be met. 

“Oh.” Morrell glanced over her shoulder, to the kitchen. “There’s a plate of food for you in the fridge.” 

“I’ll get it,” Jordan offered, stepping around the couch and into the kitchen. 

“Where is everyone?” Stiles twisted around, expecting to see some of the Hales. They weren’t there. 

“Nick, Erica, Boyd, and Isaac are loading up on provisions from the grocery store. Laura, Cora, Talia and, by default, Peter,” her eyes twinkled in amusement at the idea of Peter being stuck under his sister’s watch, “are checking the north and eastern borders. Derek and Scott are checking west and south. Those are the least active of the two, great for scent training practice.”

“That all seems like a lot of work,” Stiles yawned.

Jordan reentered the room with a towel between the plate and his hand. “Careful, it’s hot.”

Steak, potatoes (mashed, possibly leftovers from Scott), and buttered corn. Stiles’s mouth watered. “Lot of food,” he muttered. 

“You used a lot of magic,” Morrell pointed out, bopping him on the forehead with the pad of her index finger and making him flinch. “Your body couldn’t keep up with having enough nutrients and calories to fuel you _and_ the spells you used. And since you’re apparently very headstrong, and Peter is an instigator. Your body quit before your brain did.” She moved around the coffee table and sat next to Jordan on the couch. She set the bag at her feet and rested her hands in her lap, studying him. “Had your mind given up first, you’d have just blacked out and all spells you were using would have been cut off. But instead, your body started shutting down so you could continue.”

Stiles scooped potatoes into his mouth. “I’m always hungry after I use magic.” He swallowed and cut into the steak. “I assume it’s because I need the energy.”

“Yes.” Morrell nodded. “However, have you ever tried to get an unconscious person to eat?” 

Stiles shook his head.

“It’s rather difficult. The pinpricks on your arms aren’t from drugs or blood draws.”

Stiles flipped his arms over, noticing for the first time that he had a bruise in the bend of his left arm, and a tiny prick in his right one. 

“I gave you an IV to boost your nutrients and calories. Unfortunately, the vein in your right arm blew, so I had to move it to your left. That one stayed where it should’ve, though.” Morrell smiled. “Once the drip bag was done, I predicted you’d be up within a day.” 

Stiles’s heart skipped a beat. He’d slept through another _day?_

“But they’re preparing for the full moon tonight and thought, or Derek thought, he’d be back before you woke up.”

“So.” Stiles shot Jordan a sidelong look. “Talia left you in charge of babysitting?”

Jordan scowled, affronted, folding his arms across his chest. 

“She left me in charge,” Morrell interjected, winking. “Heard you hacked Jordan’s computer.” She hadn’t moved closer to Stiles to talk to him, presumably to give him space to get used to her. 

He snorted. He wasn’t some skittish animal. “Ironman87 isn’t really that hard a password to guess when he references both multiple times _and_ it seems to have significance.” 

Jordan flung his hands in the air and dropped his head back on the couch. He turned his face to glare halfheartedly at Stiles.

Stiles frowned, pieces clicking together in his head. “Did you…want us to find that information?”

Jordan grimaced. “I’d hoped someone would go after Peter, should anything happen. I wasn’t expecting you and Boyd to go alone and almost kill yourselves. I thought, if anything, Boyd would know better than that.” 

Stiles choked on a hunk of steak he’d just shoved in his mouth. “Rude.” 

“Can you take your shirt off, Stiles?” Morrell asked, apparently ignoring the two of them. “I’d like to give you a quick exam and listen to your heart, make sure there’s no residual tachycardia from the shock you received.” She produced a stethoscope from the bag at her feet.

“I need the money up front.”

Jordan covered his face with his hands, slumping back against the couch. 

Morrell blinked, blank-faced. 

“Stiles!” Cora laughed, tearing through the back door. A shit-eating grin spread across her face. “You’re awake.” She launched herself across the room, pinning him to the recliner in a bone crushing hug. “His heart’s fine,” she said over her shoulder. To Stiles, she said, “Don’t do that without me again. You could have actually died, and then who would make me laugh?”

“I am here to entertain,” Stiles said dryly.

Laura bypassed the living room and went straight to the kitchen to grab a drink. She smiled at Stiles on her way through. “Glad to see you’re up. Derek’s been a big ball of angst.” 

“Peter, don’t run off!” Morrell said, flinging her arm out. Her hand was nowhere near Peter, but he stopped anyway, heaving a long sigh. 

Stiles couldn’t stop himself from staring. 

Peter had five long gouges across his left cheek, ones he’d seen open and bleeding in the Argents’ basement. Stitches held them together, making the wound look more grisly than it probably was. 

If his memory wasn’t completely shot, there were more scratches on Peter’s chest. 

Jordan put his hands down, craning his neck to see Peter.

The expression of internal conflict on Peter’s face lasted only until Talia growled. His lips twitched unhappily but he walked into the living room and sat stiffly in the other recliner.

Cora released Stiles and moved to sit beside Jordan, still beaming. 

Morrell checked the stitches first, satisfied that he was healing, even at a slowed rate. She continued checking him over as Stiles ate his food. 

He set his finished plate in his lap. He knew he needed to take it to the kitchen and wash it, but the kitchen looked so far away, and he was so comfortable where he was. 

Jordan got up and sat on the arm of Peter’s chair, putting his arm around his shoulders and leaning in.

Stiles still hadn’t completely come to terms with the two of them as…significant others. 

Cora lifted an eyebrow at him inquisitively, but he just shook his head. 

Peter smirked like he guessed what Stiles was thinking. The fucker. 

“Stiles?” Scott’s face appeared in the window on the back porch. He squinted into the living room, and a huge grin split his face. “Dude, you’re awake!” He rushed toward the back door in a blur.

Laura leapt up from her seat at the table to open the door before Scott could careen through the glass. 

He knocked over a chair on his way, leaping over the coffee table with more grace and skill than he’d ever possessed in his life. 

Talia made a warning sound in the kitchen, but it was too late to stop Scott from slamming into Stiles. 

The back of the recliner rocked back, the front legs went airborne, and, in spectacular slow motion, kept going backwards. The fabric on the arm rest by Stiles’s clenching hand dipped, and the recliner was righted an instant before disaster struck. Peter looked down at them with mingled disgust and amusement. 

Scott’s arms tightened around Stiles’s shoulders and he pressed what was hopefully his nose into the crook of Stiles’s neck. 

“Scotty, I love you, but if you keep this up, people will think it’s more than brotherly love.”

Laura laughed from the table. “Humans are weird. Any ’wolf would know the difference.”

Scott rumbled.

Though the noise sounded content, it still made the hair on the back of his neck rise.

Scott’s grip tightened on him.

“ _Off_ , Scott.” Stiles arched his back, trying to push him off. 

Scott didn’t move, but he tilted his head so he could watch Stiles from the corner of his eye; it was a terrible thought to have, but Stiles couldn’t help thinking he looked like a dog sitting somewhere he knew he wasn’t supposed to. 

Stiles stretched his legs and wiggled his arms between them, pushing against Scott’s chest. 

Scott sat back, frowning at him. “Are you feeling better?” he asked, basically sitting on Stiles’s lap. “You scared the shit out of us…again.” His confused frown turned accusatory. 

“I’m fine.” Stiles grimaced. He hadn’t meant to scare anyone. “I feel better now.” He looked toward his lap in panic. “Where’d my plate go?”

Cora snickered, hanging halfway over the couch’s armrest and clutching the plate in her hand. “Saved it.” She took it to the kitchen, glancing toward the dining room as she passed. “Derek, your almost-boyfriend is getting squished by his pack mate.” 

Scott slid from Stiles’s lap to the floor, pouting. 

Stiles looked quickly toward the dining room, where Derek was standing, apparently frozen, looking over at Stiles. Almost-boyfriend? Was that what Derek wanted, or was Cora teasing him about all of his foot-in-mouth moments he’d had around Derek? He met Derek’s gaze and smiled hesitantly. 

Derek smiled back. 

To say his heart melted wasn’t accurate, since he didn’t die, but it did something weird. Derek’s smile was _precious._

Cora hopped over the back of the couch to sit down, stretching out to nudge Jordan’s leg with her shoe. All the wolves were pretty tactile, he guessed. It was nice. They probably didn’t think he and Scott were weird in that case. 

After a few minutes, Dr. Morrell excused herself, nodded at Talia, and headed down to the basement. 

Cora leaned over the back of the recliner that Stiles had set up camp on. “You ready for the full moon?” she asked. Her eyes were bright and shimmering between gold and brown.

Derek followed her a second later, looking around the room.

Jordan and Peter were curled up together on the recliner; Peter was dozing, just a dim glint of gold visible between his lashes. 

Stiles could feel the warmth of Cora’s breath against his check, because the werewolves have no sense of personal space. He leaned away so he could turn and see her. 

Scott growled warningly from his spot by Stiles’s ankles. 

Stiles rolled his eyes and ignored him. “What happens on the full moon?”

Cora grinned. “Mostly we shift and run in the woods. Then we’ll come home, eat all the contents of every fridge, and go grocery shopping tomorrow morning.” 

“Is running through the woods safe, with the potential of running into hunters?” Stiles could feel Scott shifting closer. “I thought we weren’t supposed to leave the house.” Like he and Boyd had followed _that_ rule when they went to get Peter. He hoped no one would bring that up yet. 

“It’d be more dangerous to have us all cooped up here. Outside, we have the space to spread out. Full moons make werewolves kind of temperamental,” she snickered. “We’ll keep you safe, though, don’t worry.” Her hand brushed over the top of his head affectionately. 

Scott lurched forward; a blur of brown flew past Stiles’s face, a deafening growl in his ear making him freeze. 

Cora jumped over the back of the chair, crashing into Scott. They slammed backwards into the coffee table. Scott slashed claws against her cheek, narrowly missing her neck. 

Stiles stared as blood ran from the wound. They healed as he watched. 

Cora bit at his pointed ear, pulling at it almost painfully as her face slipped into the half-shift, too. 

Scott snarled. He tried to tumble her under him, but she twisted so that he remained pinned. 

Stiles flinched; the last time Scott had been attacked was still fresh on his mind. 

Derek lifted Stiles out of the chair, startling him, and stepped back, out of their way. He set him down in a chair at the table, next to Laura.

She didn’t look amused with the brawl in the living room.

Cora howled and laughed, then sat on Scott’s chest. 

Stiles flinched, glancing imploringly from Derek to Laura, then to Talia, who was in the kitchen sipping a cup of water. They all looked either bored or annoyed. 

“Scott needs to learn,” Derek explained at the same time Laura grumbled, “Pups.” 

“They’re getting hurt!” Stiles gasped, looking around Derek to the blood-spackled carpet. 

“Yeah, and we just cleaned up the last mess,” Laura sighed. “They’ll heal. Only alphas fight to the death, usually. These two are just—playing.” 

“Oh, that makes me feel so much better about them tearing each other to shreds,” Stiles shot.

Derek huffed a laugh. 

There was a thump, then a yelp, then Cora let out a triumphant cry. 

Scott whined loudly. 

Stiles looked around Derek’s arm again. 

Cora had Scott pinned to the floor, her knees on his thighs, pinning his claws above his head with hers, fangs on his neck. 

Scott tilted his head to the side, exposing more of his neck in submission. 

“Tensions run higher on full moons,” Derek said. He watched Cora hop off Scott and jump to her feet, looking entirely too pleased with herself. 

Scott scowled, sitting up. 

“You need practice,” Peter said, apparently having roused himself to watch. 

Jordan had his feet tucked safely beneath him, but he was still mostly wrapped around Peter.

“Scott almost got you down,” Peter continued. “You’re getting rusty.”

“What _ever_ ,” Cora snapped. “I knew what he was doing from the first growl.” 

Scott sat up straighter, apparently preening from Peter’s almost-compliment. 

Stiles laughed dryly; they were acting like nothing was wrong. He guessed since the wounds were healing, nothing really was wrong. Stiles blinked, a wave of exhaustion crashing over him. It was either from watching them or the residual effects of his overuse of magic, or maybe a combination of both. 

“Are you going to run with us later, Stiles?” Laura stretched her legs out, bringing her arms over her head and leaning back.

Derek glanced at him, eyebrow raised. “You don’t have to if you don’t feel up to it.”

“What time do you guys start?” Stiles stifled a yawn. 

“Once the moon is out. Sometimes the moon is out during daylight, but today it isn’t supposed to rise until after eight pm.” Laura let her hands fall back to the table with a little slap.

Stiles caught himself nodding. That did sound like fun. “I’d like to go. I think I’m going to lay down for a bit longer, though.”

Derek’s brows pulled down. “You alright?”

He nodded again, pushing himself to his feet. “Yeah.” 

“Holler if you need anything,” Cora chirped as Stiles passed. 

The climb up the stairs was physically exhausting. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to sleep with how awake his mind felt, but laying in the bed, not having to pay attention to anything, was a nice thought. On the tenth step, he stopped. He was heading towards _Derek’s_ room, not the guest room he’d been in.

…The one Dr. Morrell was using now. 

His fingers trailed along the rail. Was he allowed to go back to Derek’s room, in his bed? A sigh heaved his shoulders. 

A hand brushed against the small of his back.

He jumped, twisting around and almost falling down the steps into Derek. “Shit,” he gasped. “You scared me.” He swatted at Derek’s hands when it looked like he was going to pick him up again. “I’m not a toddler, stop picking me up without warning. I can walk.” 

Derek pulled his hands away, nodding apologetically and waiting for Stiles to continue up the stairs. 

“Uh, is your room okay?” he asked, slowly taking the next step. He didn’t want Derek to feel like he was crowding him from his own room. 

“Of course.” Derek smiled. 

Stiles smiled back, his stomach fluttering.

Derek opened the bedroom door, motioning for Stiles to enter first. 

“Are you my chaperone?” Stiles quipped, flopping face first on the bed. His muscles protested the sudden movement, his face twisting into a grimace. 

Derek’s hand was on his back, rubbing comforting circles into his muscles. 

Stiles did _not_ moan into the pillow, but it took all of his self-control. The pain drained from his body, making his eyes flutter shut. 

“You’re still hurting,” Derek said, pulling his hand away. The bed dipped next to him.

Stiles sighed. “I’m fine.” He balled his fists under the pillow, missing Derek’s touch. The short massage had felt nice. 

He huffed a laugh. “You’d say that even if you weren’t.”

Stiles turned his head, glaring only half playfully at him. “Did I lie?”

Derek looked down, a small frown pulling on the corners of his mouth. “No.”

Stiles sighed again, turning his face into the pillow. “Why’d you follow me up here?” Surely he had other things to do than follow him, even if he was under house arrest. 

“You smell like Morrell, Scott, and Cora.” 

He turned back to him. “Is that a bad thing?”

Derek gave a half-hearted shrug. “I like you.” His cheeks flushed and he dropped his gaze down to the clothes Stiles was wearing. His clothes. 

Stiles’s heart skipped a beat. What did “like” mean? Surely the sweet, kind of-awkward, super attractive guy before him didn’t find his scrawny ass that appealing. 

Derek’s eyes met his, a quick, hesitant look from under his lashes. 

Stiles felt his lips moving without his permission. “I like you, too.” There. Done. No elaboration, do not pass “Go”, play it off like it’s nothing if that’s not what he meant. He turned back into the pillow. For a moment where nothing happened and there was only the sound of his breathing, he thought maybe he’d only mouthed the words. Maybe Derek couldn’t read lips and everything would stay normal-ish. 

Two hands settled on his back, the pads of Derek’s fingers applying pressure in all the right places. “Is this okay?” Derek asked quietly, rubbing Stiles’s shoulders.

He sank into the bed, sighing deeply. It was…more than okay. “Yes,” he said, the word hardly understandable. 

Derek understood. His hands traveled down Stiles’s back, expertly working the knots out of his muscles. 

Stiles melted. He might just ooze off the edge once Derek was finished with him. His entire body relaxed into the bed. …Almost his entire body. He shifted his hips subtly against the bed, too tired to be really embarrassed. He was just thankful he was on his stomach. 

Derek’s hands slipped under the hem of his shirt, the warmth of his hands divine against Stiles’s skin. “Still okay?” he asked breathlessly. 

“Yeah.” Stiles nodded. His voice was no better. 

Derek’s hands traveled down to his hips. 

Stiles held his breath as his fingers hovered on the waistband. 

Derek’s fingers stilled and his hands moved back up. 

Stiles bit back a frustrated groan; he turned, blinking up at him. The words, “Don’t stop,” hovered on his tongue.

Derek stared back, his nostrils flaring, catching whatever scents Stiles was giving off. 

Stiles reached up, gently curling his fingers in Derek’s shirt, pulling him down. “Lay with me?” Stiles asked, making sure to give Derek ample time to pull away if he chose. 

He didn’t. He laid down next to him, a heavy arm slung across Stiles’s back. He leaned forward and brushed his nose against Stiles’s jaw.

Stiles let out a shaky breath, turning his face to Derek’s. His nose brushed over his chin. He could smell Derek’s warm scent; it didn’t mean as much to him as it probably did to the werewolves, but he recognized the scent now, drew comfort from it, warmth and safety and care. 

Lips brushed his, not quite a kiss, but not quite a nothing, either. 

Stiles made a soft, disappointed sound.

Derek tipped his chin forward, pressing their mouths together gently.

Stiles leaned into the kiss, silently asking for more.

Derek pulled back, his eyes hazy and cheeks flushed. “This okay?”

“Yes,” Stiles breathed, leaning forward to claim his lips again. 

Derek’s hand slid beneath him, pulling him closer until they were chest-to-chest. 

They kissed for a while, slow and warm and pleasant, neither of them pressing for more.


	21. Chapter 21

Stiles slid backwards. Derek had dozed off, leaving Stiles alone with his thoughts, which was never a good thing. 

Chris had seen Boyd, Peter, and him leaving. Had taken a step back so they could pass. Peter spoke condescendingly about Chris in the past, calling him a pawn, but in the rules of chess, pawns don’t move backwards. 

Stiles slipped out of the bed and crossed the room as quietly as he could, though he was about ninety percent sure Derek heard him leaving. Out in the hall, he heard Erica’s voice downstairs, arguing with someone over what sounded like cookies. 

Peanut butter cookies, if Isaac’s loud response was any indicator. 

He continued down the hall, but light streaming through the library door caught his attention. He looked at the stairs, then back toward the library. Curiosity piqued, he shuffled back toward the library, poking his head around the doorway. 

Jordan stood perpendicular to the door, arms folded across his face in frustration. “Are you going to change all of my passwords?” he whined, muffled. His arms fell to his sides like a pouting child, glaring at someone sitting at the computer desk on the other side of the bookcase in the center of the room. 

“I am,” Peter said simply.

Jordan snorted; he still hadn’t looked way from Peter. “Are you going to tell me what they _are_?” He glowered. 

“Not with Stiles within earshot.”

Jordan jumped, turning toward the door, his eyes catching on Stiles’s face for the first time. His glower melted into a small, still slightly-annoyed smile. “How was your nap?” he asked genuinely enough.

“I didn’t sleep.” Stiles shrugged. 

“I can smell that,” Peter shot. “From across the room.”

Stiles glowered at the bookcase, trying to use X-Ray vision to glare at him. “Then stop smelling me if it bugs you.”

“You smell like my nephew. It’s kind of hard to ignore.” The chair scooted back and Peter’s unamused face appeared next to Jordan. He lifted an eyebrow, silently judging him, and stepped fully around the bookcase to stand beside Jordan.

Stiles puffed out his chest, standing a little straighter. If Peter wanted a staring contest, he’d give him one. 

“Peter,” Jordan said, taking his hand and resting his head on Peter’s chest. “Please be nice.”

Stiles turned away. 

“Of course, love,” Peter said with a slow spreading grin. 

Stiles chanced looking back at them in time to see Peter lean down and kiss Jordan, lips, teeth, tongue, Stiles had seen far too much. He turned to leave, then, remembering why he’d come, turned back so it looked like he’d done a little twirl. Unfortunately, if he wanted to ask about Chris, these two making out in front of him were the ones to ask.

Jordan leaned back, breathing hard. “Where’d _that_ come from?” He frowned at Peter, then glanced at Stiles. He smiled to himself, patting Peter on the chest. “I’ve got to go help make food for the run. Play nice.” He shot Peter a pointed look. 

Peter gave a toothy grin, unabashedly watching Jordan’s ass as he left. 

“Dude,” Stiles said reproachfully. 

Peter’s grin shifted from sincere to predatory. “Yes, Stiles?”

“What was that display for?” Stiles flapped his hands, knocking his knuckles painfully against one of the shelves. 

“What display?” Peter asked, fluttering his lashes dramatically at him.

Stiles glowered. 

Peter dropped the innocent act, leaning against one of the bookcases. His lip lifted in a sneer as he gave Stiles a slow, pointed once over. 

Stiles crossed his arms. It wasn’t like he had any marks or anything. “Why did Chris let us leave?” he demanded. 

“I don’t know.” Peter shrugged, like he genuinely hadn’t a clue. 

Stiles wasn’t fooled. “I don’t believe you.” 

Peter shifted his weight off the wall, walking back to the desk. 

Stiles followed. 

Peter sat in the desk chair and swiveled around to look at him. “I don’t know why he helped us,” he said simply. “I would have killed him.” 

“I don’t believe you,” Stiles repeated. He kept his arms tight across his chest and recalled every moment his stubbornness had landed his ass in trouble. He shoved the thought to the back of his mind and pressed on. “When Boyd and I went in the mansion after you, Chris was getting plastered, alone in the study upstairs. That’s not what a hunter does when they capture a ’wolf. They celebrate and party.” 

Peter’s lip curled up, revealing teeth gone sharp. 

“I think he still has feelings or something for you, from what _ever_ you guys had going before.” 

“Whatever we had,” Peter growled, “is gone. I _hate_ him, and would gladly feed him to the first creature with teeth that I come across.” 

“Then why did he let us escape?” Stiles snapped. “He could have put a bullet in all of our heads and he’d have been lauded as a hero.” He flung the words like projectiles, losing his grip on his hands and flinging those, too. “Boyd and I had our hands full helping your ungrateful ass out of that room, he could’ve easily stopped us.” 

“He’s an idiot.” Peter’s eyes flashed. “And Kate and Gerard would have killed him if he hurt either of you. They need you two alive.”

“What happened between the two of you?” Stiles shot, determined not to be sidetracked. “Does he still love you?”

“If he does, he’s twice a fool.” Peter spun back to the computer but didn’t touch it. “Hales and Argents never really got along. Talia and my parents fought with Gerard years ago. Then I met Chris.” A sinister smile twisted across Peter’s face in the reflection of the monitor. “He used me, _pretended_ to be in love with me to get Gerard close to Talia, to ask her for the bite.” He tilted his head. “I’ve only been used once in my life, and I never intend to let it happen again.”

“Talia said no,” Stiles guessed, remembering the story as he’d been told it.

“She said no.” Peter looked back at him. “Chris pursued me still. I thought he was different.” His eyes went icy and flat. “Then he set Kate up with Derek.” 

Stiles’s heart skipped. Derek and Kate? 

Peter’s eyes focused on him, clearly hearing his heart. “Derek ran off with Kate. They only spoke to us through Chris, and do you know how Talia and I found Derek?” His eyes narrowed. 

Stiles couldn’t answer; he wasn’t sure that he wanted to know. Wasn’t this Derek’s story to tell? But that was cowardice. He met Peter’s gaze. 

“The same way you found me, but he’d been there for _months._ All Chris said about them when I asked was, “They’re fine”. Derek was used as bait. The deal was to give Gerard the bite, and we could have Derek back.”

Stiles swallowed. 

“Any feelings I may have had for Chris were gone. I’d gladly rip him to shreds for what he did to my nephew, to my family.” Peter turned away from him, glaring at the books around the room like they were part of the problem. “I made it clear to Chris how I felt. He knows to stay away from me unless he’s telling me something useful about his family.” 

Stiles frowned. He didn’t know why Chris would help them if he knew Peter hated him that much. 

“Peter,” Talia snarled.

Stiles _levitated_ , jerking around to see Talia standing behind them, her eyes glowing red.

“Not your story to tell.”

“It’s at least half mine, dear sister,” Peter drawled, unfazed by her sudden appearance and apparent fury. 

“Stiles, go downstairs, please.” Her tone was even, blazing eyes still locked on Peter.

Stiles had never obeyed anyone so fast in his life. He darted from the room and down the hall and stairs, colliding with Scott at the bottom.

Scott frowned down at him, glancing up the stairs like he was going to ask what happened with Peter. His nose wrinkled, eyes flicking back down to Stiles. “Why do you stink like Derek?”

Stiles patted him on the shoulder. He wasn’t up to explaining. “I’m sure you can figure it out.”

Scott’s horrified expression made Stiles want to laugh, but he didn’t have the energy. 

He stepped around him and made his way into the living room.

Cora, Erica, and Isaac looked over at him from the couch. He distinctly saw all of their noses twitch in Disney-esque synchronization, it was comical. 

“About time,” Cora snorted, twisting back to look at the TV. 

Stiles balked, head snapping toward her. “Excuse me?”

“Neither of you were exactly subtle about your feelings.” She shrugged, curling down against Isaac’s side. 

“Excuse you, I’m as stealth as a ninja,” Stiles snapped.

Cora slowly looked back at him. “‘Got gas’, Stiles?”

If the floor could open up and swallow him whole, he would have jumped in willingly. Yep. He was never going to live that down. He walked past them into the kitchen, fishing a glass from the cabinet for water. It still felt weird and a little dangerous, getting water from the tap. 

Nick smiled at him from where he was standing over the stove, apparently standing guard over some baking cookies. 

Erica got up and crossed the room, stretching her back and winking at Scott when she saw him watching. She reached around Stiles to snag an apple from the fruit basket. 

“Where’s Boyd, Laura, and Jordan?” Stiles asked, shifting out of her way. 

“Downstairs. Boyd and Jordan aren’t up for the run tonight.” She crunched on the apple. “Well, Boyd isn’t.” She shrugged. “Jordan’s staying with Peter. He’s not healed enough to shift. Doc Morrell got snapped at when she told him that.” A wicked grin slipped across her face. “I’m sure Peter and Jordan will find _something_ to do during the full moon.”

Stiles cringed. 

“Anyway, Laura’s setting up a movie down there, in the room Boyd’s sleeping in.” She snapped her teeth playfully in his face, then sauntered away, apparently proud of herself. 

 

The wait for the moon to rise was tense, the wolves gradually becoming snippier as time went on. Isaac growled at Erica, who growled back. Cora got between them. Erica lobbed the apple core across the room, catching Scott on the cheek when Cora ducked. Scott growled, claws digging into the armrest of the recliner, drawing fluff out like oozing wounds.

“Children,” Nick warned, pulling another batch of cookies from the oven. “Please go outside if you’re going to roughhouse.” The muscles in his jaw twitched and tensed. He wasn’t immune to the pull of the moon either, apparently. 

Derek wandered downstairs a second later, sniffing audibly. “Those cookies smell good.” He made his way to where Stiles was sitting at the dining table and leaned affectionately against him. 

Cora snickered.

Stiles glowered, but Derek ignored her, resting his cheek against the top of Stiles’s head, and if Stiles’s fierce expression melted, well, he couldn’t be blamed.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, reaching out to accept a cookie when Nick offered. 

Stiles took one, too.

Cora whipped around to stare at them, her eyes wide. “What the hell did you do to him if you need to ask if he’s alright?” she asked. 

Derek’s chest rumbled against Stiles’s back. “Don’t be a dick,” he said, and Stiles started laughing. 

Talia and Peter came down next; Peter stalked past them and downstairs without looking at any of them. Talia frowned. “I’d thought everyone would at least be outside by now.”

“We were just waiting on you,” Erica said around her fangs. She started stripping her clothes off.

Stiles blinked, alarmed, and twisted to look at Derek. 

Who was also stripping.

He forced himself to swallow as flesh and muscle revealed itself layer by layer. 

A wolf darted past the table. Erica? 

Yes, a light tingle on his hip confirmed, it was Erica. He cupped his hand over the sigil, urging it to stay dormant. He couldn’t waste the energy using magic at the moment. 

Cora raced past next with Isaac at her side, leaping on him playfully and tugging at his ear with her teeth. 

A large, dark wolf bumped Stiles’s arm. Big, golden-green eyes glinted at him. Derek gently nudged his leg until he stood, then corralled him toward the door. 

Stiles was mildly surprised to see how dark it had gotten when he wasn’t paying attention. He paused on the back porch, watching the wolves dart around the yard like overgrown dogs. 

“Should’ve sent them out earlier,” Talia said to Nick, still in the kitchen.

“I let them know that was an option,” he replied. It sounded like he was smiling. 

Derek led him down the steps; Scott bounced over, all four paws leaving the ground at one point, making him look more like a rabbit than a wolf. 

Stiles laughed at him. “You look goofy doing that, dude. Look at those ears! Do you get FM with those?” He reached out to bat at them and Scott raced away, tongue lolling out. 

He shot back and pressed his head into Stiles’s chest, grumbling low in his throat like he was trying to talk.

“Yeah, I bet it’s fun.” Stiles swept a hand down his side. 

Derek pawed at Scott’s shoulder insistently until he backed up. He patted his paw against his face, then ran, waiting until Scott gave chase through the yard. 

Cora and Isaac joined in, but were distracted when Erica slammed into both of them. The three of them tumbled to the grass together in a teeming mass of fur and teeth. 

Laura bolted through the door to join them, leaping on Erica’s back and pinning her in seconds. 

Cora jumped on Laura’s back, knocking her off balance, and Isaac flounced off to chase Derek and Scott. 

Talia and Nick bypassed Stiles on the porch in flesh colored blobs; he shot his gaze toward the sky because he had _no_ desire to see Derek’s parents naked. After a moment, Talia howled, and Stiles hesitantly dropped his gaze, relieved to find them all wolf-shaped. 

All of the others froze, playtime halting as their ears swiveled in her direction. 

Talia and Nick began running first, tearing across the yard and into the trees. 

Laura, Cora, Isaac, and Erica were on their heels instantly, mouths falling open with apparent delight. 

Scott looked between them and Stiles, torn. His tail and ears lowered, a whine easing out from behind his teeth. 

Derek yipped, jerking his head toward where the others had gone, and Scott took off. Derek’s tail swished from side to side as he waited, staring patiently at Stiles. 

Stiles stepped down off the porch, brows lifted. 

Derek crouched, tail wagging. 

Stiles grinned. “Am I supposed to chase you?”

Derek did a turn, stopping the second time around while he was facing the trees. He glanced over his shoulder and swept his tail back and forth. 

Stiles rolled his eyes and ran after him. It felt good to _move_ after sleeping for so long. The physical toll on his body was immediate; his heart began to pound, sweat beaded on his face. Momentarily, he wished he was running through the fox again. He didn’t get all sweaty and gross like that. 

Derek circled back and bumped against his legs, drawing a hoarse laugh from him. 

If he’d been looking through the fox’s eyes, he wouldn’t have felt _that,_ so there were some perks to running in person. 

Derek kept pace with him, loping easily over the uneven ground. 

Leaves crunched underfoot, and in the distance, Stiles could hear the others frolicking, mixed in with the occasional howl, yip, or snarl. A particularly vicious growl made him slow his pace. Was that Erica? 

Derek stopped, cocking his head to listen; he shook himself after a second in what Stiles assumed was a canine shrug. Whatever had angered Erica wasn’t a threat, apparently. Derek bounced a few steps forward, then back, looking at Stiles impatiently like he was waiting on something. 

Stiles snickered and gave chase. 

They crashed across the dry creek bed, tearing up the other side. 

Derek wove in and out of his sight, blending with the foliage and shadows. He’d come back into view only seconds after Stiles thought they’d actually gotten separated. 

His ribs pounded, each almost-healed bruised throbbing with a vengeance. Stiles stumbled, a root trapping his ankle, and fell to his knees. He threw his arms out, palms skidding against the dirt as he caught himself. 

Derek was at his side in an instant, nosing at his shoulder for a moment. Human hands gently helped him up, turning him to face Derek. Who was human-shaped. And naked. Very, very naked. 

Stiles’s mouth went dry. 

“Are you okay?” Derek asked worriedly, apparently unconcerned with his own nudity. 

He nodded frantically, gripping Derek’s hands and forcing himself to keep looking at his face. He wasn’t even going to think about letting his gaze slip down. Not even a little bit.

Derek grinned, leaning in to press a soft kiss against his lips. 

Stiles’s eyes slipped closed, his skin buzzing in anticipation. 

Derek’s hands slipped from his and over to his waist, pulling him closer until they were chest to chest.

Stiles’s heart thumped; he could feel the heat from his chest seeping through his clothes, and couldn’t help thinking how much better it would be if he wasn’t wearing anything, either. His hands slid up Derek’s chest as he tilted his head back, lips parting slightly.

Derek took the unspoken invitation, slipping his tongue into his mouth.

Stiles leaned harder against him, hands rising to cup Derek’s face. This was exactly what he wanted, Derek’s mouth on his, Derek’s skin burning hot under his palms, Derek’s hands skimming down his back.

He slid his hands under his shirt and ran them back up against his bare skin; he arched back into the touch like a cat, shivering. 

He drew in a shaking breath, then surged forward to claim Derek’s mouth again. 

Derek chuckled, catching Stiles as he tilted dangerously to the side. “Sit,” he muttered, helping Stiles back to the ground. 

“It’s uncomfortable,” Stiles whined, gripping at his arms to draw him closer. 

Derek trailed wet, open mouthed kisses down his jaw and neck, making him sigh and drop his head back. 

He turned his face, barely managing to press a kiss to Derek’s temple. He let out a raspy breath, his pants growing increasingly uncomfortable and restrictive. He pushed Derek back just enough to get his shirt off, because he needed to feel Derek’s skin against his just once, or he might actually die. 

Derek didn’t seem to mind. He mouthed against Stiles’s throat, his tongue working against his pulse until he was gasping, hands flexing against the back of his shoulders in an effort to pull him closer. “Can I?” he asked, his fingers trailing over Stiles’s waist band. He tilted back, a flush working its way over his cheeks. “Is that stupid to ask?”

Stiles shook his head. “Asking’s sexy.” He grinned and lifted his hips to help Derek slide the sweats right down his legs. The ground was cold and unyielding against his ass; he arched up with a hiss, then eased back down. 

Derek lifted an eyebrow. 

“Ground is cold,” he muttered. He held his hands out to Derek beseechingly, and he returned. 

Derek’s tongue traced over his lips, bracing his hands against the ground on either side of Stiles’s hips, boxing him in. 

Stiles leaned forward, trying to kiss Derek again, but he shifted back again, trailing kisses down Stiles’s chest and stomach. He shivered and tried not to move, but he couldn’t help leaning back, stretching his torso out so Derek had more space. He gasped when Derek’s tongue flicked out, tracing the sigil on his hip. He wondered dizzily how far down Derek was going to go, and then hot breath ghosted across his hard dick. He shuddered and looked down, meeting Derek’s gaze. 

Derek lifted his brows, another question.

“Please,” Stiles breathed heavily.

A smirk curled Derek’s mouth. He rubbed his cheek against Stiles’s thigh, his nose brushing against him and making his hips flex, tearing a low, desperate whine from his throat. “Shh,” Derek murmured, and flicked his tongue against him. His smirk widened when Stiles let out another breathy cry of pleasure; he took his time, hands clamped on Stiles’s hips while he tortured him with little licks. 

Stiles was wondering if Derek was just going to sit there licking him like a fucking ice cream cone forever when Derek’s head bobbed down, enveloping Stiles in wet, soft heat. A strangled moan burst from his throat, his head rolling back in bliss. 

Derek hummed and dug his thumbs into the dips of his hips. His tongue licked up his shaft, taking his time swirling over his sensitive head, then bobbing back down again.

Stiles made a guttural noise that he hadn’t been aware he was capable of making and reached out, fumbling clumsy, numb fingers against Derek’s bare shoulder. He wasn’t going to last long _at all._ His breaths became short and frantic, the fingers of his other hand digging deep into the dirt next to him. 

Derek made another low noise and went down again.

Stiles groaned, a hiccupping laugh bubbling from his throat. “Derek,” he gasped, blinking sweat out of his eyes. “Derek, I’m—I’m going to-”

Derek’s brows twitched and he moved closer, swallowing Stiles down until his nose was pressed into Stiles’s hip.

Stiles moaned, curling forward as he came like a fucking _freight train_ , good lord, it was nothing like when he was by himself. 

Derek sucked him through it, then pulled back with a little, wet _pop_. His face was flushed and his eyes were glinting with a sort of self-satisfied expression that might’ve been annoying if Stiles wasn’t still shivering with pleasure. He crawled forward, trailing kisses back up Stiles’s stomach, a sharp nip of teeth to the left of his belly button making him jump. His thumb rubbed circles on the sigil on his hip. 

Stiles slid bonelessly against the ground. He definitely wasn’t cold any longer. “My turn to do you?” he asked, pulling Derek’s face up to kiss him again. 

Derek kissed him back, smiling. “Once you’re fully healed, sure. Until then, it’s fine.” 

Stiles’s pout was interrupted by another kiss. “I’m fine!” he protested, rolling them over so he was sitting on top of Derek. He braced his hands against his chest. 

“We have to go home soon,” Derek replied, resting his hands on Stiles’s hips.

Stiles froze. Home? Oh—they were on a run. They were in the woods. With the others. “Oh, my god.” He looked around wildly.

“What’s wrong?” Derek asked, suddenly alert. 

“Can they-? Did they-? Oh god, your family is out here. My _Scott_ is out here! They could have seen us!” he hissed.

Derek smiled, relaxing again. “They have ears. They knew to stay away.”

Stiles collapsed against his chest and burrowed his face against his neck, mortified. 

Derek chuckled, rubbing his back comfortingly. “It’s not like we were doing something wrong. Sex is normal.”

“I know,” Stiles snapped, digging the pads of his fingers into his eyes. “I know.”

Derek handed him his shirt, then rolled to his knees to reach Stiles’s pants. 

Stiles huffed and bent to pull them over his legs; an amused noise had him hesitating halfway through pulling them on. “What?” he asked.

Derek patted his butt. “Found it.”

Stiles laughed. “Took you long enough.” He pulled the pants up the rest of the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't written sex scenes before, please be gentle with your comments :) Fortunately (or not) there are still more to come.


	22. Chapter 22

“Bro.” Scott watched Stiles from where he was on the couch.

Stiles gripped a coffee mug in both hands, nursing the drink and eyeing Scott over the rim. Undoubtedly, Scott was picking up on what he and Derek had done in the woods, even though he’d showered after they got home to wash off the mud and leaves. 

Jordan shuffled into the kitchen, blindly grabbing for the pot of coffee. 

Stiles half expected him to drink straight from the carafe. A smile slipped over his lips when Jordan resentfully grabbed a mug. 

“Peter kept me up all night,” he muttered, walking to the empty recliner next to Stiles. 

“Apparently, Derek kept Stiles up, too.” Scott glowered. 

Stiles choked, his hand flying up to stop himself from spitting coffee across the room. 

Jordan stilled, his mug lowering. He smiled slightly, a tiny, nearly invisible thing. “I don’t think they kept each other up in the same way,” he said carefully. 

“Scotty,” Stiles gasped, flapping his hand to simultaneously cool his mouth and gain Scott’s attention. “Since you can smell my sexcapades, the least you could do is stay quiet about it.” 

“Oh, god, it _was_ the same way,” Jordan muttered. 

“You weren’t quiet on the run.” Scott crossed his arms. 

“You didn’t have to listen!” Stiles snapped. 

“He didn’t know what you guys were doing,” Cora said, swinging happily into the living room. “You’re welcome for keeping him away.”

“Thank you,” Stiles said with bravado, as if no, of course not, he wasn’t at all bothered by the fact that apparently not just Scott knew about his sex life, but the whole freaking family. It was no big deal. Apparently. 

Cora gave a mock salute before diving head first into the fridge. She reappeared with an armful of leftovers. “You find the cell phone yet?” Cora asked, dumping the food on the table and eyeing Jordan. 

Stiles stilled, taking a nervous drink to distract himself. The phone was missing?

“No,” Jordan sighed. “Doesn’t matter, though, I guess. I only called Peter with it, and he’s home now.”

“The phone is lost?” Stiles asked anxiously. “It was in my back pocket.”

“It’s probably lost in the massive laundry pile.” Jordan shrugged. “It’ll turn up. It always does.” 

Stiles’s chest loosened. At least the cell had made it back to the house. 

“I’ll have Peter call it later,” Jordan continued. “Not like I kept important information on it anyway. John and Peter were my only two contacts.”

Stiles nodded, but the anxiety was back. He’d taken pictures of the information on Jordan’s computer. _It’s in the house,_ he told himself. He’d check the laundry pile tonight, and maybe the car. Jordan seemed to be sure that it was in the house, and that it hadn’t fallen out on the expedition from the Argents’. 

“You alright?” Cora asked, squinting at Stiles. 

“Yeah.” He nodded. “I can help look for the phone.”

Jordan shrugged. “I’m not worried.”

“It’ll give me something to do.” Stiles turned the cup in his hands. “Laundry on the second floor?” he asked, standing up.

“Next to the hall closet by the bathroom,” Cora replied, already turning her attention away. 

Scott lifted an eyebrow, but he got to his feet obediently when Stiles motioned for him to follow. “What’s gotten into you?” he asked as they ascended the steps. 

“It’s my fault it’s lost,” Stiles muttered. “I’ll feel better once it’s found.” 

The laundry room was hiding in plain sight, a door he’d previously written off as a linen closet. 

“How are you feeling?” Scott asked, hesitating in the hall. 

Stiles turned to him, brows drawing down. “Fine, a lot better. Why?”

Scott fidgeted with the hem of his shirt, claws and fingers alternating and catching on the loose thread he found. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about, but there’s never really…there hasn’t been a good time yet.” He took a steadying breath that only made Stiles’s worry spike.

He put his hand on Scott’s arm, drawing his attention until he looked him in the eyes, head still ducked like a scolded child. “What is it?”

“You’re going to be mad, but it was the only option.”

“Whatever it is, I won’t be mad at you.” Stiles’s face softened, trying to convey calmness, but his heart clenched, wondering what Scott could be so scared to tell him. His calm expression would have worked a month ago, but Scott wasn’t human anymore.

A low whine escaped Scott’s throat, claws worrying the hem of his shirt until the hem began to fray. He looked away.

“Hey.” Stiles tightened his grip on Scott’s arm, trying to let him know it was going to be alright.

Scott snarled, fangs dropping over his bottom lip, top lip curled threateningly.

Stiles knew he should have stepped back; his instincts screamed to leap away. He stepped forward instead, wrapping his arms around Scott. He was still worried, but not that Scott would hurt him.

Scott’s growling got louder, and he hugged Stiles back, burying his nose in Stiles’s hair, claws tangling in the back of his shirt.

“Scott.” Peter’s voice crashed over the both of them, the warning undertone making Scott’s grip on him loosen. 

His bruises ached as Scott let go, not enough to warrant Peter’s intervention. Stiles turned, glaring at him.

“He needs to know.” Scott’s eyes flashed, claws digging into his palms. 

Stiles glanced from one to the other. 

Peter’s own eyes flashed in response. “Later, Scott.”

“It _is_ later.” Scott made a bastardized noise between a whine and a growl that could really not be called either. 

“Peter.” 

Stiles flinched hard, both feet leaving the ground, as Nick snuck up behind them. 

He folded his arms across his chest and stared down his brother-in-law. “Stop instigating.” 

Stiles looked back at Peter just in time to see his gaze cut from Stiles back to Nick.

“Scott,” Nick said softly, a sigh lifting his shoulders. “Do you mind helping me prepare lunch?”

Scott glanced at Peter, then Nick, caught between them in the hall. He looked at Stiles, torn with fleeing from Peter and staying with Stiles. 

“It’s alright.” Stiles forced a smile, uncertainty still nipping at him. “Go help. I can look by myself.”

Nick frowned. “What’s lost?”

“Jordan’s phone.” Stiles shrugged. “Scott and I were helping look for it.”

Nick hummed as Scott closed the distance between them, ducking neatly under Nick’s arm. “That’s nice of you.”

Stiles shrugged again; he still felt responsible. 

Nick and Scott had just started down the steps when Stiles spun around to glare at Peter. “ _What_ is your issue?” he demanded. 

Peter lifted an eyebrow coolly. “Jordan’s phone is lost?”

“You’re an ass,” Stiles snapped. “What was Scott upset about?”

“New wolves get worked up over all sorts of things.” Peter stepped forward to walk by. 

Stiles shot his arm out to bar his way. 

Peter growled and locked eyes with him. 

“You’re hiding things,” Stiles said, surprised at how calm his voice was. 

“I hide a lot of things,” Peter replied. His teeth were sharp, but he didn’t push past. “It’s my job to keep everyone safe.” 

“What was Scott talking about?” Stiles ground out. His heart thumped harder; something was _wrong_ , he could feel it. 

“No,” Peter said flatly. 

Stiles opened and closed his mouth in silent fury. “I’ll find out one way or another.”

Peter ignored him and turned to go to the library. The door closed sharply behind him, leaving Stiles fuming alone in the hallway. 

Stiles pressed his lips together. He twisted and stalked into the laundry room, angrily shoving clothes around. He found the shirt he’d been wearing, and the pants, but not the phone. He sat on the floor, blinking at the mess he’d made without really noticing. This…was not the outcome he’d wanted when he came up here. Maybe the phone had fallen out in Jordan’s car. It could have been kicked under a seat. 

“You alright?”

Stiles looked up and flushed when he found Derek standing in the doorway, frowning at him. He dug his fingertips into his eyes because there was too much going on. Was he alright? Whatever Scott wanted to tell him probably wasn’t that bad. If it was, he would have told him immediately, right? So that could wait. Jordan’s phone…was a bigger issue. It could be bad if it got into the wrong hands. Stiles took a deep breath. Find the phone first, deal with Scott later. Then beat the crap out of Peter somehow for making Scott feel like he couldn’t talk to Stiles. 

“You want me to get Morrell?” Derek asked, stepping closer and glancing over his shoulder, down the hall. 

“No.” Stiles dropped his hands into his lap. “I’ve just got a lot on my mind, I guess. I’m fine.”

Derek came into the laundry room and started scooping clothes into the different baskets. He kept giving Stiles careful glances as he worked. “Want to talk about it?” he asked eventually, his gaze on the clothes. “Come up with a game plan?”

Stiles chuckled, throwing a pair of socks into the white basket. “Nah.” He cleared his throat. “So, Morrell’s still here?” he asked, shoving himself to his feet. 

Derek hummed. “She left and came back. She took the lady in the basement to a safe house for further questioning.”

Stiles’s head jerked up. “Shit! I forgot about her.”

“Well, you did have a lot going on,” Derek sad patiently. 

Stiles followed him into the hall. He seriously doubted Jordan would be willing to part with his car keys, but it was worth a shot. “Can you get Jordan’s keys?” he asked under his breath. “I want to check his car for the phone.”

Derek scrutinized his face, nostrils flaring as he scented him. “Yeah,” he said after a moment of this.

 

The phone wasn’t in the car, either. Stiles looked between the cushions, under the seats, between the front seats and console, but it just…wasn’t there. He was starting to feel a little panicky. 

“Stiles,” Jordan called the second he and Derek reentered the house. “A word, please.”

Stiles cringed, then pulled his shoulders up straight. Maybe he’d found it. 

Derek’s hand settled on the small of his back comfortingly; he leaned into the touch, letting out a soft breath. 

They walked into the living room together. Stiles hesitated at the sight of Jordan and Peter on the couch together, Jordan tucked under Peter’s arm with a notebook on his lap.

“I know you’re not completely better, but we’d like a little bit more information about the ambush.” He motioned for Stiles to sit in the recliner. “Mainly what you saw and Kali’s involvement.” 

Stiles didn’t sit. 

Derek did. He wrapped his hands around Stiles’s hips and pulled him back until he was sitting in his lap. He rested his hands on Stiles’s thighs. 

“If Kali and Deucalion are working together, that poses a larger problem than Deucalion and the Argents.” Peter folded his hands in his lap like he was having tea in his coffee shop and not in his home, where some of the windows were still boarded up. 

“The lady in the tree house, Kali, I guess,” Stiles sighed, “had wolfsbane bullets. An alpha shouldn’t need those.” He shook his head. He needed to stop stressing over the phone and concentrate on this. “I didn’t see any hunters around her, but maybe she was loading the weapons for them?”

“Unlikely.” Jordan sighed, tapping his pen on the notebook. “Peter’s guess is her job was to find us, then leave so the hunters could finish the job.” 

“Why the bullets?” Stiles dropped his hand on top of Derek’s twining their fingers together. 

“Werewolves aren’t the only things affected by wolfsbane. Anybody or thing with magic can be seriously hurt with it.” Jordan pressed his lips together. “It’s obviously poisonous to some degree to humans, too, but it’s worse. All the hunters who attacked the house had a standard supply of ammunition, yet when Talia, Nick, and Laura attacked Kali, they all agreed that she had more.” 

“Paying for services with weapons is usually kept amongst the hunting community.” Peter rolled his neck and glanced over his shoulder as Isaac stumbled up from the basement. 

Isaac looked at them, put his dish in the dishwasher, and headed back downstairs quickly, apparently not wanting to interrupt. 

“Why would Kali help Deucalion?” Stiles fidgeted with the hem of his shirt, leg tapping up and down until Derek squeezed it. 

“They were together a long time ago.” Jordan grimaced. “They’re perfect for each other. Power hungry with no moral compass. If the nemeton dies, and the Hales are killed, she would definitely jump at the chance to seize the territory, even if it means sharing it with him.” 

“So the wolfsbane is to kill the tree?” Stiles frowned. “The nemeton is magic.” 

“Possibly,” Jordan agreed. “Human means won’t hurt it; lightning, fire, flood, bulldozers. The only thing that can hurt it are the Hales not being there, no other magical beings, and wolfsbane. Magic like what Kate and Gerard are using against it.” 

“Great,” Stiles muttered. 

Peter raised an eyebrow.

“Another jackass in the world.” 

Peter grinned with fangs and a soft smile spread on Jordan’s face. 

 

“We have to do something.” Stiles flopped face down on Derek’s bed. Dinner had been tense—or maybe that was just how Stiles felt. 

“We are doing something,” Derek countered. He crawled onto the bed, laying down beside him, and draped an arm across his middle. The dull aches and pains that had been building in him drained away. “You and Boyd are resting and healing while Jordan and Peter argue strategy.” 

Stiles rolled closer and pressed against Derek’s chest. “We should be getting ready to strike back, defense is great but you don’t make any progress.” 

Derek pressed his lips against Stiles’s temple, distracting him as he nuzzled his way down his cheek and toward his neck.

There was something he was mad at Peter for, something he needed to talk about with…Jordan? Scott? 

Derek’s mouth found his and he kissed back, sighing against him. Derek accepted the invitation, his tongue slipping past his lips. He brought his hands up to cup his face, holding on and licking in. 

Stiles rocked his hips forward, gasping and jerking back when he realized what he’d done. 

Derek hummed in the back of his throat and pulled him closer, sliding his thigh between Stiles’s legs and making him shiver as pleasure waved through him. 

A low rumble in Derek’s chest made Stiles smile, his hands traveling up his chest. One made a home on the back of Derek’s neck, the other on the back of his head, urging him even closer. 

Derek’s hands slid down, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake, and met his waistband. He tugged the sweatpants down. 

Stiles lifted his hips, helping him get them off. They slid with a soft _thump_ off the side of the bed. He sat up a little to strip off the graphic tee he was wearing and turned his attention to undressing Derek. 

Derek leaned over the side of the bed, fumbling with something by the night stand. He already had his shirt off already and was halfway through taking his pants off. He kicked them free and rolled so he was on top of Stiles, his knee pressing between his legs again.

“Derek, please,” Stiles whimpered when Derek’s thigh brushed his groin. He dragged his face down to his, claiming his mouth again.

Derek ground down, their dicks rubbing together.

Stiles arched up against him, a gasp escaping his lips.

Derek nipped the side of his jaw, moving with little love bites down the side of his neck to his shoulder. He grabbed his ass, pulling him down so he was flat on his back and staring up at him. Derek’s lips were red, cheeks flushed and hair disheveled from Stiles’s fingers. 

Stiles didn’t know when he’d lost his briefs, but he did know he needed Derek like he needed his next breath. He reached up, palms gazing Derek’s stomach and sliding further up his chest. 

“Stiles,” he growled, eyes fluttering shut for a second.

“I’m here,” Stiles breathed, stroking his fingers higher. 

Derek opened his eyes, leaning forward again and biting at the fingers tracing his mouth, making Stiles jump. He pressed his hand to Stiles’s throat, pinning him for a moment, then slid slowly down his chest, his stomach, to his hard cock. His other hand reached around, slick fingers brushing the back of his thigh. When had he grabbed lube? 

Stiles didn’t think too hard on it, though he did start to laugh at his own pun. 

Derek pressed their foreheads together and kissed him, biting the smile away until he was gasping. “Yes?”

“Yeah, yes, please.” He twisted, hitching his leg over Derek’s to angle his hips better. He nodded. “Okay.”

Derek hummed low in his throat and slipped one fingertip just barely in his ass. 

Stiles flinched at the feeling, startled, then, as Derek’s other hand stroked his dick, he let out a shaky moan. Had that sound come from _him?_

Derek kissed and licked at his throat, steadily working his finger inside of him, followed by a second, testing him. “Still good?”

“Yeah,” Stiles panted. “Yeah. Good.” He pressed his head back against the bed, trying to catch his breath. They hadn’t even _done_ anything yet, really. Then Derek rocked his hips forward at the same time he twisted his fingers inside and Stiles gasped, “Derek!” He wasn’t going to last very long, he could feel it.

Derek hummed a response, pressing sloppy kisses everywhere he could reach. His teeth nipped the inside of Stiles’s thigh, making him jump. 

“I want you inside me,” Stiles said, “now.” He reached for Derek’s dick, stroking him long and slow, matching the pace he was using on him. 

“I am inside you,” Derek murmured against his ear, making him shudder. His tongue flicked out, tracing the shell of his ear. 

Stiles huffed. “I want your dick, not just your—” Derek angled his wrist and hit a spot that made the next words mostly a noise, his back arching. He pressed his face against Derek’s neck, breathing in the scent of his skin and trying to anchor himself. 

“You sure?”

“If you ask me that one more time, I’m going to bite _you_ ,” Stiles snapped. 

Derek bit his jaw. “Roll over.” He leaned away, leaving Stiles shivering and so turned on he thought he might explode. 

Stiles obliged eagerly. 

Derek grabbed his hips and pulled him up until his ass was in the air. He pressed his thumbs into the dip of Stiles’s spine and had him shuddering a sigh into the sheets. 

He braced on his elbows, pressing his forehead into the bed. When Derek’s tongue flicked at his ass cheek, he jumped. Pointed teeth nipped gently at his sigil, Derek’s nose pressing against his flesh. “Derek,” Stiles whined, twisting impatiently. 

Derek nipped him again and slid his fingers back inside, testing his rim and adding a third finger that made him moan and twist his hips. “Almost,” he growled, crooking his fingers.

Stiles cried out, pushing back against him. “Derek, _please._ ” He scrabbled against the bed, trying to find purchase, then reached down and wrapped his hand around himself, eyes fluttering.

Derek pulled his fingers out, rubbing the back of his thigh briskly. “Mm, ready?” 

“ _Yes,_ ” Stiles hissed, rocking his hips back impatiently. 

Derek pressed his thumbs into his cheeks, spreading him; the thick, blunt head of his cock hovered at his entrance.

Stiles rocked backwards; the head of his dick slipped past his rim and he gasped, going still and trying not to tense up.

Derek’s hands stroked up his sides, scraping his fangs down his spine, massaging his hips, and waiting for him to make the next move.

The burn didn’t last long, and Stiles soon became too impatient to remain still. He pushed back, rolling his hips until Derek slipped further inside. The just-shy-of-painful feeling returned just as Derek moved and brushed that sweet spot inside. Stiles dropped his shoulders down and reached back, pulling him closer. 

When he was all the way inside, he had to pause, gasping, “Wait, wait,” against the sheets. He rolled his eyes up, trying to place the feeling, but his brain wasn’t spitting out anything he could work with. He was dimly aware of Derek murmuring against the back of his neck, soothing him, but he couldn’t concentrate. His own dick had softened just slightly as he acclimated to the feeling of Derek inside of him, but it didn’t take long until he was fully hard again, rocking his hips back to create friction. 

“Please move,” Stiles rasped, not trusting himself to support his own weight. 

Derek moved his hips obligingly, letting out a soft, breathy oath against his cheek. He was moving slowly, too careful. He had one hand curled under Stiles’s stomach, holding him up. There was a tight pull, but no more pain. 

“Faster,” Stiles ordered, rocking into the motion. 

Derek nipped the back of his shoulder. “Bossy.” But he picked up the pace until the sound of skin-on-sweat-slicked-skin filled the room. 

Stiles sobbed out a high-pitched noise and clenched the sheets in his fists, shaking his head.

Derek kissed his neck and slid his hand down, gripping his dick and stroking quickly.

There was no warning, no way Stiles could have warned him even if he wanted to. He just arched his back, curled his toes, and came with a little cry of pleasure. 

Derek’s teeth clamped around his shoulder, going a little sharp, and, with a muffled moan, he followed Stiles right over the edge. 

Stiles, still sort of dumb from his orgasm, reached back to clench his fist in Derek’s sweaty hair, stroking him through it. 

Derek sighed and gently pulled his fangs free of his shoulder. “Sorry,” he wheezed, licking at the bite. He pulled out, then arranged Stiles so he was laying on his stomach on the filthy sheets. 

Stiles couldn’t form a coherent reply, so he just rested his cheek against the pillow and tried to catch his breath. 

After a second, Derek stretched out behind him, resting his cheek against Stiles’s ass like a pillow. 

“Damn,” he panted. “That was amazing.”

Derek hummed, reaching out to massage the back of his thigh. 

Stiles melted into the mattress like hot wax. Derek’s fingers were officially classified as magic.


	23. Chapter 23

Stiles sat at the dining room table, hands folded neatly in front of him. He was waiting for Talia, Nick, Laura, and Peter to sit down. He hadn’t invited the last two to join them, but Laura seemed to shadow her mother everywhere, and Peter didn’t need an invitation, apparently. 

“What’s wrong, Stiles?” Talia asked, her tone gentle, like she was speaking to an easily spooked child. 

Stiles glowered at his hands.

Laura and Nick took the seats on either side of Talia and Peter; that fucker had planted his ass right in the seat next to Stiles. 

“I can’t find Jordan’s phone,” Stiles blurted. His gaze shot up, focusing on Talia. In his peripheral vision, he saw Laura frown. 

Talia relaxed just slightly in her seat, but Stiles’s anxiety just spiked. 

“You don’t understand,” he rushed on, before anyone could tell him again that it wasn’t a big deal. “I took the phone when Boyd and I went after Peter.” That got their attention, but still no one looked angry or tense. 

“There’s nothing important on it.” Nick perked his brows curiously at Stiles. “Jordan’s too clever to leave anything revealing on it.”

Stiles flinched.

Talia’s brows drew down and he almost missed the barely audible sigh from Laura.

“I took pictures of the maps on Jordan’s computer.” The words hurt to say, like glass in the throat; it hurt to admit he’d potentially fucked up and ruined everything, put this family that had taken him in and cared for him and Scott in even more danger. “We needed to know which places to avoid while we were going in.” 

Laura closed her eyes; Nick leaned back in his seat, assessing him coolly, and Peter rested his elbows on the table, hands laced together and pressed against his mouth. 

“Has anyone seen it since we’ve been back?” he asked desperately. He couldn’t seem to lift his gaze from the table. 

“Jordan’s searching our room for it,” Peter said, pulling back just enough to speak. “He thinks he knows where it is.”

Stiles sighed, his shoulders drooping. He hoped Jordan knew where it was.

Talia studied him for a long moment. Her face was carefully blank and detached. “What’s done is done,” she said. “Hopefully Jordan finds it, but if not, we’re just going to have to play it by ear.”

Stiles bit his tongue. They were sitting here doing nothing proactive for taking their home back and she wanted to “play it by ear”? But then, he didn’t have a leg to stand on. He was the one who’d taken the phone loaded with incriminating pictures on it. 

Nick stiffened slightly; they’d probably scented the change in his emotions or maybe heard the shift in his heartbeat. 

“What’s wrong now?” Peter scowled.

Stiles scowled back. “Nothing.” He didn’t look away.

Peter’s upper lip drew back just slightly. “Liar.”

Stiles’s hands clenched, bunching the fabric of his sweatpants. _Everything_ was wrong. He wanted to hurl the words at Peter’s smug, annoyed face. He’d fucked up, big time, if that phone was in the wrong hands. The Argents might’ve had someone new at their disposal. No one was doing _anything_ progressive to take their home back. They were just sitting here, spying, discussing. Staring at him.

“Peter.” Talia’s voice was a low, warning growl.

“I want to hear what he has to say.” Peter sat back and shrugged. “He’s obviously upset about something other than the cell phone, and if he’s managed to fuck us over-”

“Fuck you over?” Stiles gasped, shooting to his feet and slapping his palms on the table. “Fuck _you_ over? You don’t need me to do that!” He laughed mirthlessly. “You’re doing it to yourselves by just _sitting_ here!”

Snarls and growls erupted around the table; Peter leaped to his feet, barging closer until he and Stiles were chest to chest. 

Stiles didn’t cower, glaring up at him with as much fury as he could muster.

“ **Sit down** ,” Talia thundered. The table shook under the power of her command, but neither Peter nor Stiles backed down.

“We _were_ taking action,” Peter mocked. “I was gathering information until you messed it all up!”

“ _I_ messed it up?!” Stiles sputtered. “You got caught, and Boyd and I went back to save your sorry, ungrateful ass!” His skin tingled as magic swirled inside him, building with his rage. 

“You shouldn’t have gone back,” Peter snarled, his teeth sharpening. “That wasn’t part of the plan.”

“None of you _have_ a plan!” Stiles raged. “You’re just sitting here wringing your fucking hands-”

“ **STILES! PETER!** ” Talia roared. She was standing, claws out, eyes blazing red. “Stop this _now_.” Her voice didn’t even sound like her own, deep and resonating in Stiles’s bones. 

Peter turned to face her with a snarl that tapered off in the face of her command. 

Stiles resisted the urge to look down at the table. His flesh thrummed with energy, sigils tingling and ready at any second to be used. He felt ready to _fight,_ in a way he didn’t recognize. He felt powerful.

In the ringing silence left in the wake of Talia’s outburst, Peter’s phone vibrated across the table, Jordan’s name on the display. 

Laura sighed, though whether in relief or annoyance, Stiles couldn’t tell.

“Thank gods,” Nick muttered, glancing between Talia, Peter, and Stiles. 

The phone kept vibrating. Peter swiped a finger across the screen to answer the call. “You found it then?” He forced his voice back to normal, his fangs shrinking as he spoke to Jordan. 

“Of course I found it, Petey.” 

Stiles’s heart stopped. 

Deucalion.

Laura cursed under her breath.

Talia closed her eyes, her head dipping forward half an inch, eyes fixed on the phone.

“You’ve managed to amass quite a bit of information,” Deucalion drawled. “Color me impressed. I have to assume this isn’t all you’ve gathered.”

If the ground had cracked open, Stiles would have gladly dove in. 

“What do you want…Dukey?” Peter asked calmly. 

“Can’t we have a civil conversation between two wolves?” Deucalion’s tone was soft; goosebumps erupted across Stiles’s arms, every sense he had screaming _Danger!_

Others were starting to make their way into the room, curious and afraid. Shame made Stiles’s shoulders hunch. He’d made this possible. 

“No,” Peter said flatly. “Did Gerard let you off your leash? He wouldn’t have allowed you to contact Kali normally.” 

Deucalion growled. “Gerard fell _up_ the stairs and has been unconscious for days. Kate has her head so far up her own ass she wouldn’t know who Kali was if she waltzed through the front door partially shifted and howling.”

“Now, you know that isn’t true,” Peter replied, almost pleasant. “Kate would use anyone entering the house as target practice.”

Stiles flicked his gaze up and saw Derek frozen by the kitchen counter, his face a stony mask.

“What do you want? Other than to give away that you’ve found information that may or may not be correct?” Peter’s eyes flashed briefly gold, the only outward sign of his rising temper.

Deucalion chuckled. “Oh, just Stiles and Scott.”

Stiles’s hands convulsed on the table top; he shuddered and glanced up at Talia to see if he should answer. 

Scott inched closer to the table, looking from the phone to Stiles. His eyes were glowing steadily gold, a muscle in his arm twitching.

“Boyd,” Deucalion called in a sing-song voice. 

“What.” Boyd was leaning against the couch, arms crossed as he stared at the phone with an empty expression. 

Stiles wondered if he’d spoken loudly enough to be heard; he hadn’t moved his jaw much to speak. 

The phone was silent for a second.

“Boyd?” Deaton’s voice croaked. 

Every muscle in Boyd’s body went tense, straightening up from his slouch. “Dad?” He looked angrier than Stiles had ever seen, his fists clenching at his sides.

There was a stifled scuffle of movement over the line. “What have you done to them?” John demanded.

Stiles’s knees shook at the sound of his voice. “Dad,” he breathed. 

“Mom?” Scott cried, lunging toward the table, his face frantic.

“Oh, Scott, you’re alive! You’re both alright.” Melissa’s voice cracked.

“Stiles, are you there?” John asked, voice trembling.

“I’m here,” Stiles said. His breath was coming faster, shallower than it had been a moment before. His vision sparkled around the edges. 

“We thought you were dead,” John breathed. “We thought you were all dead.”

Stiles’s gaze cut sharply at Peter. _Don’t jump to conclusions,_ he told himself, but his brain was buzzing so loud he could barely hear his own thoughts. “Who told you that?” he asked, spacing each word carefully. His heart ached. His father had already lost his mom, and now he’d been thinking…all this time…that Scott and Stiles were dead. What kind of son was he?

“Peter.”

The world tilted sideways. 

“When you’re ready to return to Beacon Hills,” Deucalion said while Stiles was scrabbling to fathom how _he_ came to possess the phone, “they’ll be in your old room, boys. Call me back.” He hung up. 

Stiles turned slowly, like he might break if he moved too fast. He opened his mouth, drew in a short, shallow breath, and blew it back out. Then, “ ** _You told them what?!_** ” he exploded. “You said they knew we were safe!” The light above the dining table blew, showering glass upon them. 

Peter took an involuntary step backwards; his face grew hard and his eyes narrowed. “I said they were _safe_. They were safe by believing you were dead. They didn’t try to contact you, therefore they didn’t draw attention to themselves.”

A gust of wind tore through the room; Stiles’s magic was fired up and ready to battle. Pictures rattled on the wall from the disturbance. He was shaking so hard with his fury that he could barely speak. “My dad—my dad has been through _torment_ , and Melissa and Deaton have been through hell, and your solution—your fucking _fix all_ was to tell them that their fucking children were _dead_?” Stiles stalked toward Peter, catching sight of glowing orange eyes in the reflection of the back door. A glance down showed the fox at his ankles, teeth bared. For a brief second…Peter was afraid of him, and he was glad. 

“Deucalion is a werewolf,” Peter shot back, because it didn’t matter if he was scared, he was a fighter. “If they knew you were okay, he’d find out by their scents and actions, and he’d use _them_ to lure _you_ back to Beacon Hills so they could try to kill you again.” He gestured sharply at the phone, a “see, look!” sort of gesture that infuriated Stiles further. 

The refrigerator made an angry noise and powered off. 

Peter scoffed at him. “You are a child,” he snapped. “You don’t understand the dynamics of war. You think this is impressive, this makes you ready?” He flung a hand at the glass shards, at the fridge. “This is a child’s tantrum!” He clenched his fists, refusing to step back again.

Stiles threw his arms out; a gust of wind shot past him strong enough to make his knees weak. 

The wind hit Peter square in the chest.

Stiles watched with satisfaction as Peter stumbled back a few steps into the living room, catching himself on the back of the couch.

“You didn’t tell Boyd and Stiles?” Talia’s voice was heavy with disappointment; Stiles didn’t have to look at her to hear her frown.

Peter shoved himself to his feet; Jordan hovered by the entrance of the room with a worried crease on his forehead, but Peter held a hand, palm out, at him, to stay where he was. 

Something in Talia’s words niggled at Stiles’s brain. He turned slowly to look behind him. He followed Talia’s gaze. “Scott?” he asked softly. 

Scott ducked his head, a high pitched whine escaping his throat. 

Stiles’s breath hitched. “You…knew?” He let out a scoffing laugh. “You knew.” 

Scott pulled his arms tightly around himself. “I tried to tell you!” He shrunk in on himself. “I just…I tried.”

The rest of the lights in the house blew out, leaving them in shadowed mid-morning light. 

“Peter.” Talia stepped around Stiles to stand between them. “You couldn’t have expected Stiles and Boyd to react any other way to learning their _pack_ was taken hostage.” She used the word deliberately, Stiles thought, to force Peter to admit that what they were feeling was justified. 

Dishes in the cabinets rattled; it was impossible that it was all Stiles. 

“It was in their best interests,” Peter said stiffly. 

“You or Jordan could have told them at any point since they got here.” 

Stiles threw Jordan a wounded look; he, at least, had the decency to look ashamed. As he turned around, he saw Derek step toward him and then hesitate, unsure if it would only anger Stiles further if he offered comfort. Stiles clenched his jaw and turned his face away; he was glad he hung back, if only to keep him safe from rogue magic. “ _I’m_ going after them,” Stiles declared, loud and firm.

Peter’s gaze flicked over Talia’s shoulder. 

Talia slowly turned to face him. “You’d be playing into their trap.” She held her hand back and out at Peter, quelling any potential protests or retorts. 

“I don’t _care._ ” Stiles folded his arms across his chest. The fox had faded, but the feeling of magic remained. “That’s my _dad_ , that’s Boyd’s dad, that’s Scotty’s _mother._ I am not leaving them in the Argent’s basement, in-” his voice broke, but he soldiered on- “in my stead.” He couldn’t look at Scott when he let out a pitiful whimper. “I’m eighteen, of legal age and sound mind. Short of locking me up, you cannot stop me.” He stared her hard in the eye. “Even then, I’d find a way out.” He watched her lift her chin slightly, unaccustomed to being challenged so directly; he could see her frustration, but he thought he saw a glimmer of understanding just beneath the surface, and respect. Maybe he just hoped he saw that. 

“I’m going, too,” Boyd announced. His face had become an unreadable mask, but temper lurked in his eyes. 

Scott took a steady breath. “And me.” He couldn’t quite meet Talia’s gaze, but he gave it a good effort. 

Peter’s face twisted in rage. “I broke you out to help you, not so you could go back and tango with death.”

“You broke us out as a convenience to you,” Stiles spat. “I seem to recall you saying it was beneficial to both of us.”

“Yeah, so you couldn’t tell them about Jordan after they’d ripped your brain apart.” Peter sneered at him.

“That is enough, Peter,” Talia snarled. She faced him again. 

Peter backed down. 

“I’m not letting them go alone.”

Stiles startled at Derek’s voice. His expression looked thunderous, ready to fight. 

Cora stepped into the room with Isaac at her side. “I’m in,” she said boldly.

“Me, too,” Isaac added. 

Talia’s expression faltered into worry for a half a second.

“We haven’t made any progress,” Cora said quickly, seeing her mother’s expression. “And if we change locations, it’s only a—a duct-tape fix. We’re stuck in the same place we were two years ago. We can’t keep taping the wounds and hope they stay closed, Mom.”

“I want to go home,” Erica put in. She tapped her fingers on her arms. “I’ll fight, too.” She shrugged when they glanced at her. “It’s not home here. I can feel it, and I’m not even a Hale.”

Talia swallowed. “Nick,” she called without turning to look at him.

“I’ll support your decision, love. Of course.” 

“Laura,” she said. “What’s your opinion?” She closed her eyes slowly.

Stiles could see the pain of risking the lives of her family etched across the drawn line of her mouth, the tension around her eyes. 

“I’d be willing to fight if there was a plan and we weren’t running in blind and half-cocked.” She chewed on her thumbnail, still sitting at her spot at the table; she hadn’t moved, hadn’t even flinched when Stiles had shattered the bulb. Elegant as a queen, tough as nails. 

“Peter, Jordan?” Talia glanced at each of them in turn.

Jordan met Peter’s gaze from across the room, and Stiles could almost see the conversation. Their mouths set in firm lines, eyes communicating in a way he could only imagine, weighing risks and benefits. 

“We’ll go,” Jordan said, at the same time that Peter said, “We’ll stay,” and broke the entire Pack’s brains. 

They all gaped at them in unison; apparently there was not a lot of disagreement between the two.

“What?” Jordan gasped, eyes widening. “You can’t be serious, Peter.” He looked from him to Talia, like she might understand; she was too busy gawking. 

“I’m not laughing.” Peter stared back at him. “If we fight and the nemeton dies while we’re even in the general vicinity, then we are massively fucked. We’ll basically be human.”

Jordan stiffened. “And what’s wrong with being human?”

Stiles winced.

Peter’s jaw worked for a second. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Oh? Then enlighten me, _dear._ ” The pack winced collectively; Peter didn’t respond. Jordan went on: “The nemeton is going to die if we stay here much longer. If we fight, we have a chance at _winning._ ” 

“We will be walking right into the Argents’ _trap_!” Peter’s voice rose to a shout. “They are baiting us, and you are all tumbling along like dumbstruck _fish_.” 

“I’m going,” Jordan said flatly. 

Peter snarled, “I’m in a higher possession of brain function, then, I suppose. I’m not.”

“Coward,” Jordan said coolly, and turned expectantly to Talia. He ignored the low, outraged sound Peter made. “What’s the plan? We can’t just walk in there. That’s too simple, that’s what they’ll expect from three unprepared teenagers.” He waved a hand at Stiles to shut him up before he even started. 

“What if Boyd, Scott, and I go in alone and distract them long enough for you guys to attack?” he suggested anyway, because no one told him what to do. “We can try to get them to the woods, away from the town.”

Jordan nodded. “The woods might work.” 

“No, it won’t,” Peter burst out. “You’d be closer to the nemeton, the Argents could switch to attacking it instead.” He scowled. “If you engage them at their house, they have the advantage of familiarity and weapons. And in town you’ll terrorize and endanger civilians.” 

“Gambling the woods seems like the better of the three.” Cora gripped Isaac’s hand, linking their fingers together. “We can keep them away from the nemeton. There’s enough of us.” She drew her shoulders up.

Talia pressed her lips together. “I want to make something very clear,” she spoke slowly. “I do not like the idea of any of you fighting.”

Stiles opened his mouth, but snapped it shut at a sharp glance from Jordan. 

“You are my pack, my children, and it shouldn’t be your lives at risk just so we can go. You all have suffered so much.”

“We’re all adults,” Cora interjected, leaning forward instinctively. 

Talia’s eyes flashed to her. “I know. That is the only reason this is even a conversation.” She took a deep breath. “The woods,” she said deliberately, “are the best option. We’ll have to stay as far away from the nemeton as possible, and make sure none of them have a chance to attack it.” She looked to Jordan. “Do you have access to the guns at the sheriff’s department, just in case?”

Peter growled, but, ignoring him, Jordan nodded. 

“Good,” she said. “Stiles, call Deucalion back. Tell him you guys are on your way.” She met his gaze steadily, like an equal.

Stiles swallowed and hoped he could live up to that. He reached for the phone. He tried to hide the trembling in his fingers. It was all or nothing now. 

Deucalion answered on the first ring. “Hello, Stiles.”


	24. Chapter 24

They were going to meet Deucalion, Kate, and Gerard at the mansion. Deucalion promised the release of their parents if they came alone, and excruciating death for all of them if the Hales followed. 

Stiles’s heart was in his throat as he replied, “We’ll be alone. Just don’t hurt them.”

Derek made his way up next to him, looping his arm around Stiles’s waist. He nuzzled the space between his neck and shoulder, breathing in his scent.

Deucalion hummed. “Be here by six tonight.”

Stiles’s eyes widened. “It’s a four hour drive.” That gave them next to no time to get ready, to make a solid attack plan. 

The line clicked as Deucalion hung up. 

Stiles’s knees shook from adrenaline. That dick knew how far away they were; Kali would have told him by now. Stiles clenched his hand around the phone, imagining crushing it to pieces.

Derek pressed closer against him in the silence.

Only Boyd and Jordan looked confused; they hadn’t been able to hear the other half of the conversation. 

“You don’t have to leave right away,” Talia said. “We’ll follow behind you, at a far enough distance that Deucalion and Kali won’t know. If you leave at noon, you’ll get there with plenty of time, and we should get there by six.” 

Stiles felt himself nodding. This was real. This was happening. He could feel everyone’s eyes on him, waiting for his reaction. “I am…going to wait upstairs.” Their gazes were making him nervous, on top of his anxiety about his father and Melissa. He hooked his fingers in the hem of Derek’s shirt, tugging him along.

Scott whined, taking a step to follow.

Stiles glared over his shoulder, halting Scott in his tracks. “If I had known,” he said carefully, “we could have gotten them out with Peter.”

Scott ducked his head, face crumbling. “I’m sorry.”

Stiles continued up the stairs. He heard Jordan ask what had happened just as they hit the hallway. 

Derek shut the bedroom door behind them.

Stiles collapsed face first on the bed, breathing in Derek’s scent. “This is all my fault.” 

The bed dipped as Derek sat down. “None of this is your fault. The phone falling could have happened to anyone.”

“No.” Stiles rolled over and sat up. “This started because Peter and Deucalion were driving me batshit.” 

That made Derek pause, head tilting to the side just slightly.

Stiles plowed on, “Scott and I left the house because I wanted to, even though Scott didn’t have the right inhaler, and the smoke from the festival gave him an asthma attack. I used magic to save him.” The words tumbled from his mouth like word vomit; he didn’t know how much of their story Derek knew. “Twice I’ve saved him with magic in public and I can’t handle it if people die again because of me.” He leaned against Derek.

Derek sighed and gathered him closer, leaning back against the headboard. He didn’t pry for information, offering a comforting presence. 

Stiles took a steadying breath, rubbing his cheek against his shoulder. 

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” Derek said, rubbing his cheek against the top of his head. 

“I-” Stiles faltered. “I want to.” 

Derek pressed his lips against his temple, waiting for him to continue.

“Scott and I were nine or ten, and my mom took us to the park. Scott had been diagnosed with asthma at this point, but it wasn’t bad enough for him to remember his inhaler whenever we went somewhere.” Stiles pulled the blanket over their legs so he could fidget with the fabric. “Anyway, I didn’t have magic at that point and he started breathing all weird. Mom got this…this horrified look on her face, and it only got worse the longer the attack went on. He fell and was,” his voice hitched, “he was dying. I shook his shoulders while Mom was calling for help, because what else was I supposed to do? And the spell was just… _ripped_ out of me. The air from my lungs was gone, I was so winded, and then my ass was burning like someone branded me. But then Scott could breath,” he said dazedly. “He was breathing, and he was pink in the face again.” Stiles stared at his hands. “Deucalion came flying out of nowhere; he could smell the magic and was trying to catch whoever it was.”

Derek rubbed his arms when he shivered. 

“Mom didn’t even hesitate. She just stepped right up to him and said she did it. I’d never seen her do magic, but she had it, I knew she did. I don’t think the spell was anything that you could see.” He shrugged and wiped his nose on his sleeve. “She just always knew where everyone was. I don’t think it mattered to Deucalion anyway. He could smell it on her, and even though it wasn’t the spell that saved Scott, he took her anyway. She died because of me.” 

“No, she died _for_ you. The same way you risked your life to help Scott during the festival,” Derek said fiercely, hugging him closer.

Stiles took a steadying breath. Logically, he knew Derek had a point, but logic had ditched the conversation a while ago.

“Laura and Peter risked their lives to get me away from Kate.” Derek’s voice grew soft, distant. “I don’t know what I would have done if they’d died.” He went quiet. 

Stiles glanced at him. 

Derek was staring across the room, eyes glazed over. 

Stiles tilted his head back, brushing a kiss against his jaw. 

Derek turned into the kiss, teeth catching Stiles’s bottom lip.

Stiles sighed happily, turning and twisting until he straddled Derek’s lap. He gripped the front of his shirt and kissed him harder. He pressed their foreheads together, noses brushing. 

Derek groaned. 

Stiles’s hands released their vice grip on Derek’s shirt and slid lower until they slipped under it. His fingers toyed with his waistband and trailed kisses down Derek’s neck, lifting his hands to scoot his shirt up and then off. 

Derek leaned forward to allow it, hands clenching around Stiles’s hips. He paused, then pulled Stiles’s shirt over his head. 

Stiles shuddered in anticipation and leaned forward, kissing and nipping at the newly exposed skin.

“Stiles,” Derek breathed, loosening his grip as Stiles shifted lower on his lap.

Stiles kissed across his abdomen, nose pressed into his happy trail. He flicked his tongue out and glanced up, smiling, then nipped at the soft skin, making him jump. He hummed appreciatively. 

Derek cupped his face and towed him up, ignoring the protesting noise he made. “Your face is still hurt,” he said gently. 

Stiles made a garbled groan of frustration. 

“When you’re healed,” Derek kissed his forehead, “I’ll let you do whatever you want.”

“We’re going into battle, where we might die, and I’m not allowed to give you a blow job first?” Stiles quirked an eyebrow at him. 

Derek chuckled. He pressed gentle lips to his temple, his nose, then his mouth. “Motive not to die.” 

Stiles grumbled, leaning forward to claim his mouth again. “Rude.”

Derek smiled against his lips.

Rain began to beat against the window.

 

Scott hovered by the front door. He shifted from foot to foot, nostrils flaring just slightly when Stiles joined him in the entryway. “Are you alright?” he asked.

It was a loaded question; he was anxious, pissed, nervous, scared…the list could go on forever. “A bit sexually frustrated, but that’s just motivation to get this over with, I guess.” Stiles shrugged. 

Cora laughed from the living room; she padded closer to them and glanced up at the steps where Derek was, then back at Stiles. She threw her arms around him and sniffed at his neck. “We’ll be right behind you,” she said in his ear. “Don’t die.”

Stiles hugged her back. “You don’t die either. I need someone to laugh at my jokes.”

Cora smiled and stepped back. “You’re a dork.”

“I know.” 

Jordan walked up to them, car keys dangling from his finger. “I’m driving,” he said, looking at Boyd as he approached. “We’ll switch drivers at the Thornton’s, and I’ll wait there for Talia and the others.”

Everyone except Peter was gathered in the entrance at that point. Stiles stood on his toes to try and see over their heads to spot him.

“Peter’s on patrol,” Talia said, catching Stiles’s eye. 

He nodded and backed up to the stairs a bit so the door could be opened; it was still raining, ironically. 

Jordan led them out and unlocked the car; Boyd claimed the passenger seat, leaving Scott and Stiles to clamber into the back. 

Stiles leaned against the window, watching the rain splatter and roll down the glass. 

Scott pressed against his side, but he didn’t turn.

As Jordan pulled out of the driveway, Stiles’s leg began to bounce anxiously.

 

The rain was pouring by the time they got to the freeway; even with the wipers on as high as they would go, Jordan was squinting and driving cautiously. He insisted it was a good thing, though. “The rain will wash away our scents.” He tapped his thumb against the steering wheel.

“Yeah,” Stiles said lightly. He guessed that was one bonus of the bleak situation. 

The drive was made mostly in silence. There wasn’t much to talk about. Jordan fiddled with the radio, and at the three hour mark, he found a static-filled rock station. The music lasted about fifteen minutes before it fizzled to only static. He sighed and turned it off.

Thornton’s gas station was empty when they pulled onto the lot, the canopy lights shut off.

“I’ll drive,” Boyd volunteered, unbuckling. He got out of the car and switched to the passenger seat. 

Stiles scrambled to the passenger’s seat. 

“Don’t engage them if you don’t have to,” Jordan instructed. He leaned against the top of the car, staring down at them through the open driver’s door. “I’m going to wait here for the others, then I’ll go to the station with Laura and Isaac. Talia, Derek, Cora, Erica, and Nick will catch up with you.” 

Stiles found himself nodding. This was it. No going back.

Jordan rapped his knuckles against the roof, chewing on his lip and backing away. “You know where the mansion is?”

Stiles caught himself before he could roll his eyes. They’d all been born and raised in Beacon Hills; everyone knew where the damn mansion was.

“Yes,” Boyd said curtly.

Jordan nodded, hands going to his hips where an officer’s utility belt would be, and Stiles suddenly understood why he would ask such an inane question. It felt unnatural to him, sending teenagers—legal adults, but teenagers nonetheless—into a dangerous situation willingly. “Be careful,” he said heavily.

“Yeah,” Stiles said, his mouth suddenly dry.

“We will.” Boyd squeezed the wheel. 

Scott leaned forward to give him a thumbs up.

Boyd shut the door and waved, waiting until Jordan stepped away to pull slowly onto the main road. His gaze flickered to the mirror, watching Jordan. 

Stiles leaned back in his seat. “I’m going to make sure we aren’t going into an ambush.”

Scott let out a soft whine. 

“Be careful,” Boyd instructed. “Don’t wear yourself out, or we’ll all be screwed.” 

Stiles waved a dismissive hand. “I’ll be fine.”

Boyd snorted. 

Releasing the fox only took a thought; Stiles caught sight of glowing orange eyes in the side view mirror for half a second before he was running away from the car. Rain fell straight through the fox’s body, pooling on the ground. He could hear the car getting further away. He shook himself and took off into the trees, chasing the scent of…Peter? He quickened his pace; it must have been an old scent, because Peter was supposed to be at home. 

He detoured from the scent, winding his way through tree trunks and underbrush. The scents of more people began to filter in. Other hunters, maybe, prowling the woods. He growled; how many recruits did the Argents need to bring into this? 

The scents mingled with the rain, but he counted at least ten of them. The mansion came into view. That was where the scents were the strongest. They were gathered in the house. 

He paused, hunkering in the grass though he knew no one could see him. He stared up at the front porch. 

The woman he’d seen at the tree house, _Kali_ , stood by Deucalion, arms folded across her chest. “Fine,” she snapped. “Do it your way.” She turned to go back into the house, throwing the door open. “Get your guns,” she snapped. “The nemeton will start to heal once the Hales arrive.” She grabbed someone from inside and dragged him out onto the porch. “Take your group to the tree. _Now_ ,” she added when he continued to stare at her. “I want the rest of you to head to town, patrol the streets. If anyone even looks like they’re going to help the Hales, kill them where they stand.” 

Stiles’s heart pounded. They knew the Hales were on the way. 

“Thank you, Kali,” Deucalion said, overly pleasant. 

“Derek’s mine.”

Stiles flinched. He hadn’t sensed Kate’s approach from behind. Long black sigils trailed up her neck and jawline. He could feel the thrum of magic coming off of her. Fear clutched him; the fox shot back to the car, leaping through the windshield in what felt like a second of travel, and slammed into Stiles’s chest. 

Stiles sat bolt upright, hands flying in panic; his knuckles cracked against the window.

Scott yelped, a snarl tearing from his chest, but Boyd kept the car steady. 

“They know everyone’s coming,” Stiles babbled. He needed to get all of it out before Deucalion could hear them. “Kali’s taking hunters to the tree, because with—with all the werewolves and us in Beacon Hills, it’s going to get stronger, so they want it dead before they get here.”

“Fuck,” Boyd breathed. “Do you think Talia will realize it? With her—alpha mojo?”

“I hope so.” Stiles couldn’t even appreciate Boyd saying _alpha mojo_. He gripped the loose material of his pants anxiously. “Deucalion, Kate, and Gerard, I think, are going to be our welcoming committee.” 

“Perfect.” Boyd stared ahead of them. The rain was coming down even harder; puddles had turned to streams along the side of the road. “We’ve got this. We’ll only have to get those three into the woods, then, since Kali’s leading the hunters to their deaths.”

A smile slipped across Stiles’s lips before he could stop it; Boyd’s confidence was at once astounding and inspiring. 

“Where’s Chris?” Boyd turned carefully onto the street that would take them to the mansion.

“Inside,” Stiles muttered. He hadn’t seen Chris, but he hadn’t seen the hunters, either, and he was confident they were there. “Maybe he’s guarding our parents.” 

Boyd let out an agreeable noise. “Maybe.”

Stiles’s heart twisted anxiously as the mansion came into view.

Deucalion stood in the driveway, a sinister smirk on his lips and his eyes gleaming red. 

Kate stood to his right, an assault rifle in her grip like she was considering shooting them there. On Deucalion’s left stood Gerard, pale, skinny, certainly not threatening looking except the way his eyes narrowed at them.

The car slammed to a stop as soon as they came into sight, still a couple hundred feet away. 

Boyd’s eyes were wide, unmoving as he stared at the old man. 

“What’s wrong?” Stiles asked.

Kate lifted the gun.

Stiles began to fidget; this was not part of the plan.

“Remember when I told you that I didn’t know who I cursed with my first spell?” Boyd stared straight ahead. 

“Yeah, you said you thought it didn't work.” Stiles squinted at the three through the rain.

“I cursed Gerard.”

“No way.” Scott leaned forward in the seat, squeezing between them on the console. “How do you know?”

“I can feel it.”

_**Bang!**_

All three of them jumped and stared forward as Kate held the rifle pointed up. A warning shot.

“Ready?” Boyd licked his lips, hand on the door handle.

“Nope.” Stiles flung his door open and slipped out into the rain; Scott climbed out behind him.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long! [Gia](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Gia279) and I were performing some maintenance on this chapter; there was a risk of falling and getting a concussion in that plot hole! Anyway, enjoy!

The rain had thoroughly soaked them by the time Stiles and Boyd were in earshot. The dirt underfoot had turned into an ever-deepening river; the ground was too dry from the drought to absorb the water. 

“Where are our parents?” Stiles called, sounding braver than he felt.

Boyd stopped just a step behind him, looming over his back. He could feel the slight twitch of Boyd’s fingers against his shirt and sucked in a quiet breath as he recognized the jerky movements; Boyd was picking a lock. 

Deucalion’s cheek twitched, eyes narrowing and claws popping out at his sides. “Scott,” he snapped. “Come here.” His claws flexed; he was going to make Scott walk to his death willingly. 

Scott shook his head, eyes flashing. “No.” 

“I’m giving your precious father all the special treatment I wanted to give Derek,” Kate said as she stepped aside, distancing herself from the other two. “Did he tell you all about me? About the fun we had?” She snickered. “How he…begged?”

Stiles tracked her movement, molten rage flooding him. “The deal was we show up, you let them go.” 

Kate laughed, a shrill, piercing sound. “Oh, you boys _are_ naïve, aren’t you? Why were you chosen to be sparks?” she scoffed. Her gaze grew hard.

Stiles didn’t shy away. They needed to wait for Talia.

“ **Scott, come _here_** ,” Deucalion commanded.

Scott flinched at the alpha tone, claws digging into his legs as he fought the urge to obey. 

Stiles’s heart lurched in his chest; they were trying to separate them. 

Boyd’s hands worked faster behind him, hidden by his shoulders. 

Scott took a halting, involuntary step forward, claws balled at his side, still snarling like a motorboat. He looked pleadingly at Stiles, eyes wide with horror. “I can’t stop.” The words turned into a high, scared whine. 

Deucalion growled warningly.

Scott flinched with the next step.

“Scott, _no_.” Stiles threw an arm out, grabbing the back of his shirt in a weak attempt to hold him back. “Don’t. You are _not_ his pack, you’re mine. I’m yours.” 

Scott didn’t stop; he stumbled forward, dragging Stiles along for a few, halting steps. 

“Scott, STOP!” Stiles dug his heels in, gripping his arm and bracing himself. He could see Scott’s muscles flexing, trying to resist Deucalion’s orders. 

“Let go, Stiles.” Kate jerked the gun, then aimed at his chest. 

His hands jolted up, dropping his hold on Scott.

Scott staggered forward several steps.

A howl sliced the air from the woods; Stiles’s head snapped up. _Peter._

Boyd’s hands shot out to the side. The gun in Kate’s hands flew up into the air, landing somewhere on the front porch. 

Kate spun on him, lips twisting into a snarl. 

A flash of metal was all the warning they had; a bullet plowed into the mud at their feet. Gerard aimed a handgun at them. The next shot was just as deafening as the first, and just as shocking. 

Boyd threw his hands up; the bullet zipped past Stiles’s head, then whizzed by again in the opposite direction.

Gerard dropped with a cry of pain. Blood oozed from his leg.

“You _bastard._ ” Kate lunged at them.

Deucalion leaped at Scott. 

Boyd shoved Stiles back a step and twisted, catching Kate’s fist in his palm. 

Her hair rose, body illuminating with electricity. Steam sizzled up from the ground beneath her boots. 

Stiles could feel the charge through the puddles, a phantom burn throbbing on the back of his arm. 

The water rippled and hissed, bubbling and popping as the heat built. A circle of fire exploded from beneath Kate’s feet.

The flames shot up Boyd’s legs. With a yelp, he leaped back, letting her go and trying to smack the fire out.

Stiles threw a hand up, stumbling toward where Boyd was panicking. His sigil swirled to life; he pulled the oxygen from the flames, fingers flexing. The fire flickered, weakening but not quite going out. He clenched his jaw, concentrating hard to make sure he didn’t crush Boyd’s lungs on accident, and _pulled_. The flames died, leaving Boyd’s pants charred, but his legs were basically unharmed. 

Boyd straightened up and nodded his thanks, gasping. He turned to face Kate with a glower.

Kate panted, sweat gleaming on her brow. She sucked in a hard breath, her gaze sweeping over them. The flames around her were resting just above the pooled water, a wavering barrier between herself and them. Her fingers flexed at her side. Each twitch had the flames moving, rising and falling like waves. Her gaze skipped around like she was searching for a way out.

Boyd stepped right; the flames grew to waist-height in front of him. He stepped further, but the flames always followed him, even if Kate didn’t. His hands twitched, but none of his spells would help with fire. 

Stiles swallowed and marched forward, his own magic hovering just beneath his skin. If it didn’t work, he’d yank the air from the flames and risk her attacking him.

Kate turned to watch him; her teeth were grit with the effort of wielding magic that wasn’t hers, concentration making her eyes narrow to slits. It was only a half second; the flames nearest Stiles shot up, shielding her. She smirked tightly and flexed her wrist. The fire rose even higher, obscuring her face.

The blaze at her sides fell as her concentration wavered. Boyd leapt over the smallest of them, throwing his hand out.

Kate reared back, stumbling over her own feet. 

The fire lashed out with her panic; Stiles gasped, jerking back to keep from being burned. 

Boyd tumbled past Kate, rolling to a crouch a few feet away. Mud dripped down his cheeks as he panted.

“Aw,” she laughed breathlessly. “So close.” Her blasé attitude wasn’t effective paired with her pale, sweaty face.

Boyd’s fist clenched, a slow smile spreading across his muddied face. He jerked his fist to his chest.

Kate yelped as she flew forward, arched like she’d been hooked. Water splashed up over the fire, extinguishing it with a noisy hiss. Kate crashed to the ground in front of him. 

Boyd threw a hand out at Stiles, flinging him back several feet and into the mud. He looked back at Kate and slammed a hand against the ground.

Kate shrieked and threw herself to the right; lightning flashed up with a deafening _crack_ like a whip, narrowly missing both of them. 

Boyd snarled and stood up.

Kate lunged at him with an arc of silver. The knife pierced Boyd’s shoulder.

He cried out and stumbled, one hand flying to his shoulder as blood gushed down his arm.

She ripped herself away and bolted into the trees.

Breathing hard, Stiles pulled himself up, starting toward Boyd. He hesitated when he saw Gerard roll to his hands and knees, hands scrabbling through the puddles for the gun. He swore and lunged forward, trying to find it first. 

Scott roared and leaped on Deucalion’s back, digging his claws into his shoulder. They stumbled together, nearly trampling Stiles and Gerard. 

Deucalion snarled furiously, and Scott went flying through the air. 

He landed with a splash, crouched, eyes blazing. 

Stiles looked at Gerard, still searching for the gun.

Gerard slammed into his side, skidding them across the lawn and away from the weapon. 

The front door opened. Chris stood on the porch, staring despondently at the gun on his feet. He motioned toward it and stepped aside, leaving it where it was. 

What the hell was he playing at? Stiles squirmed, throwing an elbow back and slamming it into Gerard’s face.

He reared back, sputtering as blood poured from his face.

Stiles kicked his injured leg and jumped up, shaking mud off his hands. 

A clawed hand yanked him off balance.

He threw himself in the opposite direction, but the grip didn’t slacken, tightening and twisting his arm back, making him yelp and rise to his toes. His feet scrabbled against the mud for purchase.

“We don’t need _you_ anymore,” Deucalion breathed against his neck. His other hand clamped onto Stiles’s waist from behind, digging his claws in. “I’ll crush your ribs one at a time.” His grip tightened, claw tips piercing skin.

Stiles cried out, jerking his head back in an attempt to break his nose. 

Deucalion turned his head away and laughed, flexing his hand on his side and tearing a sob from his throat.

His eyes watered, tears mingling with the rain; he slammed his foot back, connecting with Deucalion’s thigh, but he barely flinched. 

A victorious howl tore from the woods.

Stiles was supposed to be _helping_ them. He wrenched his right arm free and swung his hand back, over his head. His fingers dug into Deucalion’s nostrils and eyes. He yanked the air from his lungs before Deucalion could rip free.

He let go, throwing his hand off and hunching forward, winded but otherwise unhurt. 

Wind kicked up around them, trying to throw them apart. 

A breathless laugh bubbled up from Deucalion’s chest.

Rapid gunfire split the air; Deucalion jerked forward. He snatched at Stiles, who skipped back, puffing for breath.

He pressed his hand to his bloodied side, trembling and gulping. His knees gave out, crumpling him to the ground. Water sluiced over his back as he shook, gasping in air. He looked up, staring past Deucalion.

John stalked across the lawn, Kate’s assault rifle raised and aimed at Deucalion; his face was cool and determined, mouth set.

Deucalion spun around and roared, closing the distance between them and raising his claws. Seven rapid fire shots hit him in the chest, knocking him back several feet. Blood soaked his shirt; he snarled furiously, puffing like a winded rhino. 

Stiles flinched when another shot fired.

Deucalion faltered, his leg exploding in strings of mangled flesh and denim. He snarled, struggling to stay up right.

John shot his other leg out, sending him crashing to the ground with a furious, pained roar. 

Somewhere, Boyd groaned in pain. 

Stiles tore his gaze away from Deucalion, whose arm had exploded with another bullet when he tried to heave himself up, and saw Melissa snatching the dropped handgun from a puddle.

She smashed the handle against the side of Gerard's head; he slumped forward, eyes rolling to the back of his head. 

Stiles looked around dazedly, instinctively seeking Scott in the chaos; he was crouched by Boyd, pressing his hands over his wound to stem the blood.

Stiles glanced back at his dad, who shot Deucalion again. He looked down at the blood staining his side. He squeezed his eyes shut, then started the painstaking process of getting to his feet. He gritted his teeth and pushed up, knees first, ignoring the roiling waves of pain from his side. Once he was upright, he shook his shoulders, took a steadying breath, and ran for the trees. 

John called his name, faintly, but he didn’t stop. 

Stiles crashed through the woods, swiveling his head around for signs of Kate in the mud. 

Unfortunately, she came from above. She dropped on him with a solid _crash_ that sent his wounds throbbing. 

He fell on his back in the mud, gasping and holding onto his wound.

Kate jammed her knee into his side, making him scream as she scrambled up and off him. She took off running.

“Fuck,” he gasped, forcing himself to his feet. He dropped his head back on his shoulders, letting the rain cool his face. He swallowed and ran.

Kate saw him coming and cursed viciously; while she was looking back at him, she careened right into a knee deep creek. She leaped back to her feet, spitting brown water. She looked between him and the muddy hill above her head. She bared her teeth and threw herself at the hill, digging her hands into the muck and beginning to climb.

Stiles cursed the gods and threw himself into the frigid water. He waded through as quickly as he could, struggling to find purchase as the ground squished beneath him. From the base, the hill seemed impossibly high. His side throbbed and his feet were freezing and soaked. He clenched his jaw and dug his hands into the mud. 

He slid to the bottom just as Kate heaved herself over the top ledge. He beat his fist against the hill, furious. Stiles tipped his forehead against the mud in front of him and gathered strength. He inhaled sharply through his nose and struggled to the top.

“You fucking _brat,_ ” Kate snarled as he caught up. She spun around, her hands whipping up.

Stiles jerked his chin, killing the flames before they were more than embers in her palms.

She bared her teeth. “You don’t deserve that. You don’t know how to use it.”

“I’ve got an idea.” He wasn’t sure he did, though, not as weak and wounded as he was. 

Kate scoffed. “You can’t even use that sigil to its full potential,” she spat. She jerked her hands again, this time blazing a path of fire to his legs.

He leaped to the side at the last second, bracing his hands on a tree trunk. He circled in that direction, keeping his gaze on her. “Who did you have to kill for that one, Kate?”

She grinned. “A pretty girl named Heather from the high school. She was sweet,” she added with a smile. “She was covering for her brother, though, and we got him, too.” She twisted her wrist, exposing a fresh sigil on her inner forearm. “Such a nice family,” she cooed. “Just like you and your mother. We like to get the set.” She slid her fingers across the mark on her jaw, eyes gleaming. 

Stiles didn’t know why he did it; he just suddenly found himself lurching forward. They collided hard; the pain was breathtaking. He landed one, hard punch across her face before she screamed in rage and hit him back. They rolled in the mud, landing as many bows as they were taking each. The wind whistled around them, sending loose branches and sticks crashing to the ground from the trees. 

Kate’s hands closed around his wrists, burning hot and getting hotter. Her eyes blazed manic bright in front of him. 

The pain, the rage, built in his chest; he concentrated hard enough that she managed to roll him under her, but it didn’t matter. He closed his eyes. He didn’t bother trying to pull the air away from her. Instead, he pulled it toward them. 

Her nails dug into his wrists; she was leaving burns, but he could barely feel them. 

All the air he could reach, he gathered it close. His eyes flew open and Kate flinched. He shoved it into her lungs, into her blood and muscles. 

The sound was like nothing he’d ever heard before; at once a wet _pop!_ and a deep **boom!**. Blood, flesh, and bone rained down; he shut his eyes to protect them and let his head fall back. He swallowed thickly. It took a moment for it to sink in. 

When it did, Stiles scrambled up to his knees and gagged, choking and sputtering as whatever was in his stomach came up. “Oh, god,” he gasped, rubbing the back of his wrist over his mouth. “Oh, god,” he said again, shakily. Around him, the mud was running red, pieces of…her…lying over the brush. A large clump of skull and hair was near his foot. He jerked away, pain forgotten as the reality of what he’d just done struck him.

He backed away until he felt a tree trunk at his back. He leaned against it and curled his knees up, locking his arms around them. His side throbbed, and his wrists were burning, but he couldn’t make himself care. He stared at the remains of Kate and shook.

Blood and mud mixed on the ground, turning it into a slick, sucking pool.

Stiles didn’t know how much time had passed; he was shivering softly and staring straight ahead when someone put a hand on his shoulder. He flinched, jerking away, only to realize Derek was talking to him in a low, soothing voice. He looked up at him. “She’s dead,” he croaked, and started to cry.

Derek gathered him up, rubbing his back encouragingly. He was trembling. “I’m glad it was her and not you.” He pressed his nose into Stiles’s cheek, hands flexing squeezing around his arms. 

It took a second for Stiles to regain his thoughts, flexing each limb carefully as feeling flooded back.

Derek lifted him into his arms, carrying him through the woods.

The Hales were still in their human forms: Talia, Laura, and Cora were in front of them; once they saw Stiles’s eyes open, Laura ran ahead, toward the mansion.

“Where’s everyone else?” Stiles croaked, glancing toward Cora, who was hovering behind them. 

Derek ducked his head down to brush his cheek against his temple.

“They’re dealing with the hunters in town,” Talia replied.

“Kali?” Stiles struggled against Derek until he sighed and set him on his feet. 

“Mom killed her first.” Derek held fast to his arm to keep him steady.

Stiles nodded and twisted until their arms were linked. 

The walk back to the mansion took an eternity; Stiles’s body felt wrung out and limp as adrenaline drained. His feet were dragging. He was keeping his eyes open only because he was afraid of seeing Kate’s exploding body behind his eyelids.

The Argents’ lawn looked like the end of a horror movie. Gerard was sprawled face down, torso heaving. Unfortunately, it looked like he was still alive.

Melissa stood guard over him, gun forgotten as she fussed over Scott, running her hands over his face to check for injuries.

Deaton crouched next to Boyd, who was sitting up. His shirt was ripped open, exposing the stab wound on his shoulder. Blood ran freely down his chest.

Stiles watched, dazed and fascinated, as Deaton gently touched the area with his fingertips. It began to heal before their eyes. 

Deucalion twitched, making Stiles jump back, bumping into Derek. A growl rumbled up from his bloody chest. 

John stared down at him, unamused, and waited until he’d started to sit up before shooting him again. 

Deucalion went still, though his body was trying to heal all the wounds already. 

Talia leaned forward eagerly. “Would you like me to take care of him for you?” She looked down at the mess of Deucalion’s body, the sluggishly healing injuries. “Or would you like to keep using him as target practice?”

John startled briefly at all the naked werewolves, then looked back at Deucalion. His lip curled in disgust. “Kill him.” He shouldered the gun, stepping back to give her space. 

Talia studied her prey, then crouched beside him. She thrust her hand through his back, then pulled out sharply with his heart clutched in her fist. She crushed it.

Stiles swayed against Derek, his vision going gray.

John paled. He looked away and for the first time seemed to notice Stiles. He ran forward and scooped Stiles into a hug.

Stiles hugged him back, exhausted and safe in his father’s arms again; he didn’t even care that the butt of the gun was digging into his bruised side. 

“You’re okay,” John gasped, sweeping his hands up and down Stiles’s wet shirt. “I can’t believe you’re _alive._ ”

Stiles squeezed his eyes shut, trying not to imagine what John must have been going through, thinking he was dead this whole time.

“I was so worried,” he said, leaning back to look Stiles in the eye. 

“I know.” Stiles felt tears well in his eyes. “I’m so sorry. I thought you knew we were okay.” 

John hugged him again. 

Over his shoulder, Stiles could see Melissa crushing Scott, too. 

Gerard’s hand closed around the discarded handgun.

Stiles’s gaze shifted to see Peter stepping around the side of the house. 

“What the hell are you doing here?” Laura demanded. 

Chris hovered by the porch like he wasn’t sure if he should approach, but desperately wanted to.

Peter glared at him, then back at Laura. “If my whole pack was going to die, I might as well die with them.” He flexed bloodied claws. “You almost let some of them escape.”

Gerard’s hand snapped out, grabbing the discarded gun. He swung it up, aiming at Peter’s head. “Traitor.” 

“No!” Chris dove off the porch as Gerard pulled the trigger. Blood splashed across his and Peter’s shirts as the bullet grazed his side.

John shoved Stiles back toward Derek, spun, and shot Gerard through the nose. 

Derek’s arms clasped around Stiles from behind to keep him upright.

“You!” Peter snarled, watching Chris stumble to his knees. His eyes flashed. “Why the fuck would you do that?”

Chris blinked up at him, blood oozing from beneath his shirt.

Melissa shot to his side, hands flying. She lifted his shirt off and used it to wipe the wound clean so she could examine it. “Looks shallow, but there’s too much blood and debris for me to tell,” she said rapidly. “We should get you to the hospital as soon as possible. Keep pressure on it.” She nudged him.

Chris braced a hand against the shirt on his side and let out a dry laugh, staring up at Peter. “We need to talk,” he said.

Peter’s face twisted into an enraged snarl. “I don’t want to talk to _you_ , you betrayed me. You hurt my nephew. You are not worth my time.” 

Chris flinched. “I didn’t know what Kate was doing to him. I only spoke to her, never him, and she said he was fine.”

Derek let out a low, groaning whine. 

It didn’t go unnoticed by Peter; his face tightened. “I _hate_ you.”

“I know.” Chris looked away, a small smile twitching his lips. “But love isn’t always two ways.” He hissed when Melissa pressed her hands over his to apply more pressure. 

“I could never dream of loving _you_ ,” Peter spat.

Chris still didn’t meet his gaze. “I would never ask you to.” 

“He needs to go to the hospital,” Deaton said, approaching them. He didn’t look down at Chris, his expression stiff. 

“An ambulance is on the way,” Talia called. “Cora used the landline.” 

Peter bared his teeth at Chris. “This conversation is over.”

That weak smile returned. “Alright.”


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE END!!!! THE END THE END! I hope you enjoyed this beast of a fic, and I hope you'll tell me what you've thought! Thank you for your comments and for sticking it out with me!

Stiles and Boyd ended up in the same hospital room. Scott had been placed in the room next door until his accelerated healing made him better. Deaton popped in and out of their room infrequently, adjusting the IV drips in each of their arms. It was to help hydrate them, but it was one of Deaton’s own concoctions for magic users. 

Stiles also had to get stitches and ibuprofen for his bruises and cuts; apparently alpha claws caused wounds that weren’t so easily healed by magic. He and Boyd mostly slept. The first time Stiles woke, his dad was asleep in the chair next to him. He reached out, knocking his hand against his. The touch wasn’t enough to wake him, just enough to reassure Stiles that he wasn’t dreaming. 

The second time he woke, it was Derek in the chair, watching him with a deep frown. 

“Can we go home yet?” Stiles slurred. 

Derek climbed into the bed with him instantly, tucking him under his arm protectively. The dull throb of pain in his side and along his chest faded.

He fell asleep seconds later, and woke up a third time to an empty room. Even Boyd’s bed was empty. His heart tripped over itself. He swung his legs out of bed, sitting up too quickly. His head spun, colors flashing across his vision. He gripped the edge of the bed until the world settled. He looked at his arm blearily and found only a bandage and cotton ball where the IV had been hooked up. 

The bed creaked as he slid off of it, crossing the room on wobbly legs. The hospital gown threatened to slide off his shoulders, so he gripped it to hold it in place. The door squeaked when he pulled it open. He heard Talia speaking in a low voice and hesitated.

“Peter, I’m so sorry.”

A low growl answered her, making the hair on Stiles’s arms stand on end. “Pawns are there to die for the important pieces.” 

Pawns? Something stirred weakly in Stiles’s memory. Peter…had referred to someone as a pawn once before. …Chris. Stiles’s chest tightened. Was Chris…

“That doesn’t mean you don’t feel-”

“I feel _nothing_!” Peter snarled.

Stiles slumped against the doorjamb, staring blankly at the floor tiles. The wound must have been worse than Melissa thought. He couldn’t wrap his brain around it, though, couldn’t imagine such a little cut…

“Pawns die,” Peter repeated at a lower volume, as if trying to convince himself. 

Chris was dead. Chris had died. Chris had died _saving Peter_. It didn't make him a good person, didn't make up for turning a blind eye to the things his family was doing, but it had been a start...

There was a shuffle, and Peter’s low growls grew muffled, probably by Talia. “It’ll be alright,” she murmured.

Stiles backed up, closing the door quietly and covering his mouth for a second. He shook his head. He couldn’t…He shuffled back to the bed and sunk into it, curling up beneath the thin blanket. 

 

 

Stiles was released two days later. Boyd had gone home the day before, which Stiles thought was unfair. He waited impatiently while Melissa filled out the discharge paperwork, tapping his fingers against his knees. She looked tired, he realized, feeling bad. 

She sighed heavily and held out a clipboard. “Here, sign by the X.” 

He took the pen and struggled to scrawl his name. “What happened to Chris?” He’d been meaning to ask for days, but hadn’t worked up the nerve. “The wound didn’t look that bad…”

Melissa let out a shaky breath. She rubbed her eyes. “It didn’t look so very bad on the outside, but it’d done more damage than I thought. The bullet hit his rib and shattered.” Her voice lowered. “The human doctors did everything they could, but they discovered the shrapnel too late.” 

Stiles passed the clipboard back, frowning at his lap. The _human_ doctors. So Deaton was either unwilling or unable to help Chris. He didn’t know how he felt about that. 

“Okay, kid, you’re ready. John’ll take you home, and I’ll see you there later.” She kissed his cheek and let him climb off the bed. 

It felt weird to be back in Beacon Hills. He watched the familiar buildings go by as John drove him home in the cruiser, feeling relieved and tired. They were the same rundown buildings, sitting on the same crumbling sidewalks, as they’d always been, yet they looked worse than he remembered. Maybe they _were_ worse. 

They passed Lydia Martin walking toward the hospital, her shrewd gaze tracking the cruiser as they drove by. Her lip was split, and she had bruises on her face, but she was walking easily, her head held high and proud. 

“What happened?” Stiles asked, gaping.

John followed his gaze, lifting a hand to wave when Lydia noticed him looking. “Remember how Jordan and some of the others went into town, raided the sheriff’s department?”

“Yeah…”

“And that hunters were patrolling the town?”

“Yeah…” Stiles said again, smirking because he could guess where this was going.

“Well, it turns out that given the chance, the townspeople were ready and willing to fight back. Especially some of the older families, like the Martins and Whittemores and Mahealanis, when they heard the Hales were here and fighting.” John shrugged. “Plenty of our neighbors have shiners, but damned if they aren’t proud of themselves. And, you know,” he said thoughtfully, “I think after this win, they’re less apprehensive about the Hales taking over. They know they’ve stood up for themselves before, so they can do it again.”

Stiles could see that. As far as he’d heard, Talia had already started the process of getting fresh tap water to the town, and contractors from the next largest city over were coming in to fix the more rundown of the buildings. People were talking about the Hales’ return, first in whispers, but louder every day. 

Things were definitely on an upswing, Stiles thought, even if the citizens of Beacon Hills didn't trust it yet. He sighed. 

John glanced at him and smiled a little. “That sounds like a happy noise.”

Stiles smiled, too, resting his forehead against the window. “I am happy.”

John nodded, fingers tapping against the wheel. 

“Jordan at his old apartment?” he asked. He hadn’t seen much of any of them in the last few days. It was kind of upsetting. 

“Yeah, he and Peter. Derek has a loft off of main, while Talia and Nick rebuild their old home. The rest of the pack seems to be floating in between.”

Stiles nodded without looking away from the window. They passed the high school; Stiles could close his eyes and still get home from here, knew every bump and pothole, every crack in the asphalt and cement. He looked up as they bumped over the driveway; he could see Melissa in the living room through the open front window. 

And there was Scott. It was a relief to see them in their own home, as they’d always been. Stiles’s chest loosened, a quiet sigh slipping through his lips. He frowned when he saw Derek walk by the window, and Talia lean over Scott’s shoulder to push at…Isaac’s legs, moving them off the coffee table. 

A quick flex of his overused magic told him Deaton, Boyd, Jordan, Cora, Laura, _and_ Erica were there, too. 

“Dad?” Stiles looked at him. “Why’s everyone but Peter at our house?”

“Because he wasn’t invited.” John opened the car door, slipping out into the cool air.

Stiles rolled his eyes. This was definitely where he got his sass. 

They walked up to the front door together.

Scott yanked it open, beaming, and pulled Stiles into a firm hug. “It’s so good to have you home.” He rubbed his face into Stiles’s neck, spreading his Scott-scent all over him. 

Stiles knew what he was up to. 

John huffed and stepped around them neatly dodging Nick as he swooped down to tousle Stiles’s hair.

“We figured we couldn’t surprise you and Boyd with a welcome home party, so we just opted for a party,” Scott said, backing away to let Stiles in and close the door. 

“I had no say in this,” Boyd called from deeper within the house. 

The smell of freshly baked cookies wafted to him, but before Stiles could follow it, Derek stepped in front of him. He smiled and hugged him, brushing a chaste kiss over his forehead, and another on his lips.

“Scott talked Deaton into baking oatmeal raisin cookies,” Derek said against his cheek. 

Stiles smirked; he could see Boyd’s delighted smile over Derek’s shoulder. Stiles turned his head to kiss Derek’s jaw, then jumped back when John cleared his throat. 

Derek grinned, eyes glinting. “Let’s go get a cookie.” 

 

Talia and Nick left first, going around the room to kiss everyone, even Stiles, on the head before they left. Isaac, Cora, and Laura left soon after, blowing kisses from the door. It was strange to see them in such high spirits, but it was a good strange. Deaton hovered in the kitchen, guarding the remainder of the cookies that he claimed were for Stiles, since he didn’t get to have as many as everyone else. 

“Don’t be a stranger, cutie,” Erica said, dropping a quick kiss on Boyd’s cheek. She followed Jordan out of the house, throwing a wink over her shoulder before closing the door. 

“So.” Stiles leaned against the side of the couch Boyd was sitting on, flicking his gaze back and forth between the door and Boyd’s face. “You and Erica, huh?”

Boyd narrowed his eyes.

“Took you long enough, Vernon Boyd the _Third_.” A grin cracked Stiles’s face.

“Got gas, Stiles?” he asked flatly. 

Stiles shoved himself to his feet, insulted. “Wow. That was low, and Cora isn’t even here to laugh.”

Boyd rolled his eyes and kicked his feet up on the coffee table. “I’m sure she regularly laughs about that throughout the day, even without reminders.”

Stiles glowered. “Rude.”

Scott chuckled, jumping over the back of the couch to sit next to Boyd. “So, are you going to call her as soon as you get home?”

“Actually,” Boyd said coolly, “I was going to call my parents first.” He looked behind him at Deaton.

Deaton nodded. “I have their number. With the Argents gone, they can safely come back.”

Scott gaped at Boyd, then at Stiles, before excitement lit his features. “Dude! That’s awesome!” He punched Boyd’s shoulder in his enthusiasm, then slapped his own leg. “Nice!”

Boyd nodded, a small smile curving his lips. “It is awesome.” His gaze went distant. “I’ve missed them. It’ll be nice to see them again.” He looked toward Deaton. “How’s Dr. Morrell? We haven’t seen her in a while.” He glanced at Stiles for confirmation, and he nodded.

Deaton sighed heavily. “She was injured by the captive hunter, but she’s recovering well. It’ll only be a few days before she’s on her feet again.” He shrugged. “She gave as good as she got. That hunter won’t be a problem any longer.” 

Stiles grimaced, shuffling his feet guiltily. He hadn’t given Morrell a second thought after she’d left with the captive. He went willingly when Derek tugged him into his lap, rubbing soothing circles in his back.

John asked Derek about the loft, where it was, how far away from the house was it, those kinds of things, while Derek answered earnestly, one hand resting on Stiles’s knee.

“I’d like to see it,” Stiles said, leaning forward. 

Derek flicked a glance at John, who, with a resigned expression, nodded. 

 

They took the jeep to the loft. Derek played with the buttons on the dash until a radio station started playing. There was hardly any static. They listened in silence. 

Stiles parked the jeep in the spot Derek indicated, flicking the engine off and sitting for a second.

Derek jumped out first, waiting until Stiles had rounded the front of the jeep to catch him around the waist, mashing their lips together with a clash of teeth and tongue. 

Stiles’s hands flexed in surprise, then slipped his hands in his shirt, yanking his body closer.

“Inside,” Derek said, tugging him toward the door. He’d taken only a few steps before he stopped to kiss him again, humming against his mouth. “Yeah, yeah, we have to go upstairs.”

Stiles moaned against his lips. “I thought you said inside.”

Derek gave a half-hearted groan, biting Stiles’s bottom lip. His hand slid down over his face and then curve of his ass; Stiles grinned when he squeezed, laughing breathlessly as they stumbled inside the loft. Derek kicked the door shut behind them, nipping at a spot on the back of Stiles’s neck, making him jump.

“Promises were made,” Stiles said. He turned in Derek’s arms and reached for his pants, tracing his lips with the tip of his tongue. He smirked when he felt Derek’s mouth tremble open.

He shivered in anticipation. His eyes went half lidded when Stiles slipped his pants off. 

Stiles ran his hands along Derek’s hips, his stomach, as he sank to his knees, nuzzling against his thigh. He licked his lips and took his half hard cock in hand, stroking him to full hardness. He hummed appreciatively and glanced up at Derek, brows lifted. 

Derek nodded, chest heaving with his heavy breaths. 

Stiles smirked and dipped in, licking from the very base up the vein to the head. He flicked his tongue around it, drawing a moan from above him. He smirked and closed his mouth around the tip, sucking experimentally.

Derek’s hips flexed; a screeching noise had Stiles glancing over. His claws were dug into the metal door. “Not a word,” he growled. 

Stiles’s eyes crinkled as he smiled, but he didn’t pull off; he rippled his tongue against the underside of Derek’s cock, then bobbed down, taking most of his length in. He didn’t stop when he felt the tip hit the back of his throat, relaxing his muscles and taking slow, careful breaths through his nose. He’d never done this before, but honestly, the waiting had made him eager.

“Stiles,” Derek groaned. His hand landed in Stiles’s hair, gripping just a little.

He hummed and felt a rush of joy when Derek gasped. He began to move, swirling his tongue around his dick as he sucked, bracing his hands against Derek’s thighs. It didn’t take long, really, which was saying something, with all that werewolf stamina, when Derek let out a strangled moan and came down his throat.

“Sorry!” he gasped. 

Stiles was laughing as he pulled him to his feet, kissing along his jaw and neck, biting at his lips. He was breathing hard, too, but he was happy. “Got you,” he said, kissing Derek’s mouth. 

Derek shook his head. “I love you,” he said. He brushed his thumbs over Stiles’s flushed cheeks. “A lot.”

Stiles smiled at him. “I love you, too.”


End file.
